


Lifting You Up

by AraniaArt, Kamiki



Series: Falling's Just Another Way to Fly [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Fic, Demons, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male lubrication, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Bucky Barnes/Original Minor Character(s), Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Occult, Past Rape Mention, Past Rape/Non-con, Pheromones, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Succubus!Bucky, Suicidal Thoughts, Switching, Transformative Works Welcome, demon!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 109,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/pseuds/AraniaArt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamiki/pseuds/Kamiki
Summary: Seventy years after Hydra molded Bucky Barnes into The Winter Soldier, their demon slave, he manages to escape the chains of their binding.  However, even free from them, it is a hard climb out of the pit that has been dropped into -  reclaiming his identity, his memories, and coming to terms with the monster that he has become.But he doesn't have to do it alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover image by [MaxKennedy24 ](http://maxkennedy24.tumblr.com/)  
>  [ Reblog it on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/140353983663/maxkennedy24-stucky-commission-with-bucky-as)
> 
> *
> 
> Welcome to Part 3 of Falling's Just Another Way to Fly!  
>  For those of you who decided to skip part 2 due to the HTP content, [a FULL SUMMARY of The Downward Spiral, Chapter by Chapter, is posted HERE](http://arania.kamiki.net/misc/fanfics/tdssummary.htm). 
> 
> This fic will follow this universe's version of Captain America: The Winter Soldier for the first 4 chapters, and then diverge! Thanks for following along with this wild ride and HUGE passion project for us - we're super excited to be starting part three and ultimately seeing Bucky recover from the trauma visited on him. 
> 
> Be warned, there will be references to and recovery from past rape/trauma from Bucky's time in Hydra. 
> 
> So long story short, Bucky's not quite out of the woods yet, but we promise a happy ending for our long-suffering boys. Expect both angst and fluff, recovery and challenges, and more enemies as well as allies.

He went to the Smithsonian to visit the past, hoping to rekindle the burning sense of purpose that had once guided his life.  All he found were ghosts. 

Back then, two years ago or seventy depending on the count, Steve had known precisely what he was fighting for.  He trusted the men and women by his side, he knew the stakes, the enemy, and that the cause they risked (and gave) their lives to further was unambiguously noble.  Now?  That sense of righteousness had been pulled out from underneath him by a man he had trusted enough to fight for, leaving him adrift as a castaway in a morally compromised future. 

Slouching and hiding his face under the brim of his nondescript baseball cap, Steve Rogers forded the scant weekday crowds of the Smithsonian.  He’d been avoiding the exhibit for months; the grandeur of the spectacle was an ill-fitting suit around his shoulders.  He hadn’t come here to see his own face amplified larger than life.  He came to see those of the Howling Commandos: his comrades in arms and men who had become brothers on the battlefield.  He came here to see the idealistic fire still burning in Peggy’s eyes, unfettered by the leeching disillusionment of time.  And perhaps most of all, he came here to see Bucky.   
  
He had known that a memorial had been erected in his honor; he had not been prepared for the magnitude. His portrait had been cast in the same stormy blue-grey that his eyes had been in life, ghostly translucent on a pane of glass.  Here, hundreds of miles from where they’d grown up and thousands from where they’d bled and toiled on the battlefield, was the only place Steve could still look Bucky in the eye and feel his looming presence.  A headstone above an empty grave was no more his resting place than their tenement in Brooklyn that had been renovated past recognition and converted into a laundromat.  No shade of Bucky lingered on the erstwhile battlefields of Europe; no trace of his body had ever been found in the miles of craggy ravines that yawned beneath the railway cutting through the Alps.  Nature had reclaimed the war-ravaged countryside; time had healed its scars in a way that had not been afforded to Steve.   
  
Bucky’s melancholy expression pinned Steve to the spot, a silent accusation filling the space between them.  Their history was spelled out in text etched on glass but nowhere did it say the way Steve had failed him.  Steve had saved the world, but he couldn’t save the most important person to him.  His stomach churned as he tore his eyes away from Bucky’s gaze, grief stinging his eyes.

*

He went to Peggy to seek guidance, but she like the world about her had moved on and been swept up in the murky waters of the future. 

Peggy had started SHIELD; it’s why he joined.  He trusted Peggy’s intuition and integrity: cleaving through injustice with the unwavering trajectory of an arrow.  But somewhere along the way in the years he’d slept through, the clear, idealistic arrow’s path Peggy had laid out had been distorted like its image through water.  Circumstances changed.  Soldiers became spies.  The world grew complicated and the crisp black and white decisions blended into roiling gray and he couldn’t find his way through it.  He came to her like a ship seeking a lighthouse to guide his way through the storm.

Maybe if the gulf of seventy years hadn’t stretched between them, maybe if age hadn’t clouded her mind, she could have given him the direction he needed.  Instead, her rose-tinted memories of his unshakable idealism led to a pat on the hand and a placating smile.  Or maybe she was right; maybe he was thinking too hard and being overly “dramatic” about his misgivings, but she had far more faith in his direction than he did.  
  
In the end, her best advice was “all we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is start over.”  But how the hell did he do that?  He couldn’t go back in time, no matter how much he yearned to.  There had to be a reason he was still alive in this unfamiliar world.  

*   
He went to the VA to find out how soldiers could return home from war and start over.  He found as many different paths and challenges as there were veterans seeking help.  

The war that Steve had enlisted into was long over, but he had never stopped fighting.  Over lost time, the nation that Steve still bled and toiled for had become embroiled in messy international conflicts, the points of which Steve could no longer say he fully understood.  His misplaced faith in the work SHIELD and Fury were doing, that he had trusted were for the protection of the nation and its people, had led him here.  However, that didn’t mean that Steve didn’t still believe in the soul of America with all of his being.  That didn’t mean that there weren’t people out there who needed his help.  And at this point, Steve wasn’t even sure if he knew how to stop fighting.  He just needed to find a different way he could still serve.

Steve found that he was far from the only soldier to return home from war feeling emptier than before he left.  Even without the same gap of time separating these servicemen and women from their homes, they all dealt with the challenges of feeling unmoored in civilian life and carried heavy baggage from war that few could understand.  As he listened to the veterans’ stories, the room was full of loss and trauma, of misgivings, tarnished idealism, and questions of the real meaning behind their service.  Each veteran was at a different stage of coping with what their lives had become, but the course was different for everyone.  There was no single goal post to head towards, but a long journey, plagued with individual hurdles and challenges, bearing the weight of different baggage.  
  
There were no simple answers, no one path for a soldier to take back home, but he did find a kindred spirit who was willing to help him ask the right questions.   Sam Wilson’s sharp assessment of Steve as a displaced vet had led him here to begin with.  He was the first person in the future who’d treated him like a person – a soldier - instead of Captain America.  He understood him in the way that only another soldier could, and was unashamed to call a spade a spade.

Before today, Steve had assumed that his path forward would entail a different way to fight for his nation: another cause to fight for.  Sam emphasized that before he could answer the big question of what to do with his strength, he needed to start with himself. 

Steve’s first step was a question: what made him happy?  It should have been an easy question.  School children could answer it.  But every answer on the tip of Steve’s tongue was attached to an empty place in Steve’s chest.  

*  
Finally, he headed towards home, hoping that sleep would let him process and percolate on what was left in the world that still made him happy.  

The even rumble of his motorcycle formed the soundtrack to his tumbling thoughts.  Everyone owed it to their nation, to their God, and to themselves to do what they could to make the world a better place.  Steve had gone through most of his life with a clear image of what he wanted to do, but limited means to do so.  When Erskine had gifted Steve with the means to do more than others, he had deputized him with the responsibility to use it.  How could he back down now, how could he even consider getting out when he was just as strong today as the day he’d been given the serum?  He owed it to Erskine - to the world- to use the power he was granted, but what cause could he commit to that wasn’t now shadowed by doubt?  This time, he would have to be certain because far worse than not fighting at all was lending his strength to the wrong cause.

Steve parked his bike and started up the stairs to his apartment.  After time had stolen everyone from his life, Steve had shut himself off from making new, meaningful connections.   The idea of moving on was like a dance: bewildering to see other people tackle it so effortlessly.  He didn’t know the steps or even how to find the rhythm.  Maybe he just needed the right partner to teach him.  

Natasha had been pressing him to start dating again, but he still found himself balking at the idea even when the cute girl next door – Kate? – flirted with him.  Seventy years, apparently, was still too fresh of a wound.  But Steve had found himself falling into an easy rapport with Sam when they’d first met jogging around the mall.  It had been surprisingly simple to open up to his warm, charismatic smile, disarming demeanor and playful banter.  Today, Sam showed Steve that he was also no stranger to guilt, loss, or regret.  Losing his partner Riley had called into question Sam’s very reason for fighting, and Steve understood that at a fundamental level.  Maybe there could be something there.  

Still, Steve was almost thankful when the sudden alert that someone had infiltrated in his apartment distracted him from his mired thoughts.  
  
*  
The doors in his path gave way like tissue paper, not even slowing his relentless momentum as Steve pursued Fury’s assassin.  Despite how quickly Steve had laid chase, the shooter had nearly outpaced him along the rooftops, having made it nearly to the edge of the building by the time Steve burst onto the scene.  

Fury’s murky motivations, the surveillance of his apartment, and the lies and espionage had snared Steve in doubt throughout the day - none of it mattered in this moment.  

In moments like this, when Steve was in his element, there was no hesitation, no question about on how to act.  Steve’s mind planned strategy like a reflex, his body responding to his commands like the well-oiled machine built for combat that it was.  By the time he had rolled to his feet after jumping the gap between buildings, his shield was already hurtling towards the assassin – a maneuver sure to stop his escape.

Instead, the target pivoted with reflexes rivaling his own, catching the shield with an uncanny strength – effortlessly snapping it one-handed from the air as easily as a teenager catching a plastic Frisbee.  The assassin levied an inscrutable glare at him, his eyes reflecting the city lights strangely like the eyes of a cat from above a half-face mask.  Rough armor covered his left arm, gleaming subtly like gunmetal in the low light.

Then, a shimmer of light washed over his opponent like a heat mirage, jarring loose a discordant note of memory of Loki’s illusions and altering the man’s silhouette.  Horns arched over the man’s head – but they were no helmet.  With a shift of his shoulders, two massive leathery wings unfurled from slits masquerading as seams in his leather jacket, popping and stretching outwards like a snake unhinging its jaw.  

The shock knocked the wind from him as effectively as a punch to the gut and for a moment, time froze.  The world had grown so much stranger since he’d gone into the ice.  The future had flung aliens, “Norse Gods”, and flying battleships at him, and he’d handled them in turn.  But for all of the church services and Sunday school he’d attended, he had never expected to face down what he could only describe as a literal demon.  

Steve had been looking for a sign; apparently he’d gotten one.  

Before Steve could kick himself back into action, the assassin – the _demon_ – snapped its arm, propelling the shield back towards him like a stone from a sling.  The force sent him skidding backwards, and by the time he looked up it had taken to wing, already a distant silhouette against the night sky.

Steve set his shoulders; he had his direction, now he had work to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to talk to me about the fic, or just follow me on tumblr, I’m at [araniaart.tumblr.com](http://araniaart.tumblr.com)
> 
> My wife and co-conspirator is at [shipperhipster.tumblr.com](http://shipperhipster.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks to Kaolin for extra help with beta'ing this fic - it has been a HUGE help!
> 
> If you see a need for a tag we don’t have please feel free to comment/let us know!  
> And, as always, comments, kudos, feedback, artwork, squeeing, etc is always MORE than welcome ;)


	2. Chapter 2

 

Steve had overturned SHIELD’s turtle-shell and found it rotten underneath.   It would figure that when confronted with a literal demon, somehow _Hydra_ was behind it.  Steve had trusted that in the aftermath of the war, SHIELD had finished ferreting out the last bastions of Hydra’s infestation.  But no, instead its infuriating motto – “cut off one head and two more shall take its place” – had proved far more literal than even Steve had given them credit for.  Instead of locking away ex-Hydra scientists and conspirators, SHIELD had given them jobs, thinking them reformed and allowing them to spread their infection through SHIELD and, potentially, myriad other organizations around the globe.  

For _two years_ Steve had worked for them, lending his strength to God-only-knew how many operations that ultimately furthered Hydra’s goals.  It was a nightmare scenario, but at least the reveal had sharpened Steve’s determination to a laser-focus.  He knew his enemy, he knew his allies, and unlike the creeping doubt that had been nibbling at him for months, this was a battle that he could fight.  

Violence abruptly derailed their plans to take the fight back to the Triskelion.  The demon – the “Winter Soldier” as Natasha had identified him – shattered the silence and threw their ace in the hole into oncoming traffic before Steve had time to react.  Gone was the subtlety that Natasha had described in whispered tones with genuine fear glinting through her layers of carefully-groomed composure.  Gone, too, was her skepticism when Steve had described the assassin revealing wings and horns and flying off into the night.

In broad daylight, in the middle of a heavily-trafficked highway, the ghost story dug his claws into the asphalt after being thrown from their vehicle.  His talons carved gouges into the road with a shower of sparks as he slowed himself to a skidding halt before rising with measured grace to his full height.  The human disguise fell from him like a discarded weapon as he confronted their small crew.  This was no silent assassination; this was shock-and-awe.  

*

The Winter Soldier had Natasha injured and uncharacteristically frozen in the sights of his M4A1, poised to take a final, fatal shot when Steve charged into the fray.  Steve was expecting an impact, hoping to barrel the demon off of the gray sedan he was using as a platform.  He wasn’t expecting the demon’s armored fist to drive unflinchingly into his shield with the force of a truck, stopping Steve in his tracks before he was kicked away.  He barely managed to duck behind his shield again before the Winter Soldier opened fire with his assault rifle.  

Like a dance, they closed the distance, the Soldier switching out the assault rifle for a Skorpion machine pistol, and then, as Steve vaulted over the car to kick it from his hands, a SIG-Sauer.  Each weapon was tossed aside with careless abandon the moment it was no longer useful, replaced immediately with something more suitable for the range.  

He fought like nothing Steve had ever seen before – more like a whirlwind made flesh than any singular opponent.  Steve barely managed to deflect blow after blow as the Soldier unleashed a relentless assault from his armory of man-made and unnatural weapons.  The moment Steve managed to knock a knife from his hand, a claw came for his temple, then a heavy boot for his knee, then a clawed wingtip snagging at his jacket to jerk him aside - on and on without a pause for thought or reaction when a maneuver was thwarted.  A deadly logic led precise, inhumanly-quick strikes, indicating the presence of a tactical mind that rivaled his own behind those impassive eyes.  He countered Steve’s blows and followed-through on openings, forcing Steve into the defensive as each rapid strike barely gave him time to block the next.  Had the stakes been different, Steve might have almost been excited for the chance to go up against such an evenly-matched opponent.    

Finally, Steve managed to create an opening: he dodged to the outside of the demon’s left swing at the last moment, sending the strike wild with the unchecked force behind the blow.  Steve caught his shield on the thorny spikes at the elbow, locking up the arm.  Wedged for a precious split-second, Steve took the opportunity to deliver an unimpeded, full-strength punch to his jaw that would have sent any other adversary to the pavement.  It barely phased the demon.  

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the biting sting of a knife drove into his thigh.  

Steve dropped his shield with a clatter.  A damn _tail_ that he hadn’t remembered seeing before released the knife’s handle, leaving the blade embedded in his leg.  

For a moment, Steve’s heart seized as he realized belatedly he’d dropped his guard.  The demon’s arm was free, fingers curled into deadly claws and poised at his face.  But instead of following through, the Winter Soldier gripped his chest, loosing an anguished animal-whine:  the first noise he’d heard him make since the fight began.  

But Steve hadn’t touched him.   
  
Now wasn’t the time to question his luck.  Steve seized the demon by the jaw, turning the grab into a throw and drove the Soldier’s head towards the concrete.  

The demon lashed out with a wing midair, breaking free of the hold and leaving Steve holding his rigid mask in his hand.  

A dozen feet away, the demon rolled gracefully to his feet and turned as the world shattered beneath Steve’s feet.   

 _No._   _It couldn’t be._  

“ _Bucky?”_   The name punched out of him, strangled with disbelief.  

The Winter Soldier’s brows twitched towards each other as Steve’s vision tunneled inward.  “Who the hell is Bucky?”

*  
Bucky’s face drowned out whatever else must have been happening around him.  There was movement, shouting (perhaps from Rumlow’s voice?), restraints and the background noise of a vehicle, but Steve’s mind was stuck on a loop.  

He was alive.  Bucky was alive.  

_I left him to die_.  _When he needed me the most, I didn’t save him.  I had the chance and I didn’t go back for him._   

He didn’t die in the fall.  He’d _survived_ , and Steve _wasn’t there for him._ Steve had left him.  He’d left him alone for seventy years and now Hydra had him and had perverted him into that creature.  

Finally, some of his thoughts filtered into words.  “It was him.  He looked right at me like he didn’t even know me.” 

_Dear God in heaven, what had happened to him?_   There had been no recognition in his eyes, just confusion.  What had Hydra done to him to make him fight for them?  Bucky would never… 

 Skepticism sharpened Sam’s response.  “How is that possible? It’s got to be some kind of trick.  We all watched him sprout horns and wings.  Who’s to say he can’t make himself look like your old war buddy, too?”  
  
_The tail…_ It had whipped out of nowhere, surprising him in the middle of a battle Steve had barely kept up with.  _But I should have recognized it – I_ was there when he’d grown it!   
  
“Zola experimented on him - some kind of ritual,” Steve murmured as facts tumbled into place like the pins of a lock.  _The altar, the singe of electricity in the air and arcane runes lining the walls.  That poor bastard we found in Prague… Why didn’t it occur to me he might have survived the fall?_

Bucky had been terrified about what was happening to him during the war.  They’d searched for answers together, but Bucky had died – no- not died – fallen! – before they had found anything concrete.  He’d been scared that it would get worse.  It had gotten worse – it had gotten _so much worse_.  _They’d turned him into_ this _.  A demon._ Chills raced down Steve’s spine.   _Bucky had to become that… that THING without him there._

_He must have been terrified._

 “Look, even if – IF that’s what used to be your friend, who’s to say there’s anything left in there, Steve?  You saw what we saw.”  The word ‘demon’ was on Sam’s lips, but he hesitated, face ashen.  “That wasn’t human.”  

A memory of Bucky, splashed in the blood of Hydra agents and shivering in a courtyard in Poland swam to his mind.    _“I barely feel like myself anymore.”_ Bucky had confessed.  “ _I’m scared I’m becoming some kind of actual monster.  I’m scared I’m going to wake up some morning and not know who the fuck I am anymore.”_

Sometimes Steve hated his perfect memory.  

Something crystallized in Steve’s voice.  “If there’s anything left of him at all, I need to help him.  He’d be there for me.” 

“None of this is your fault, Steve,” Natasha cautioned, her voice strained. 

Steve shook his head resolutely.  “Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”  
  
And for a moment, the numbness of shock that had swallowed him up withdrew enough to give Steve a glimpse of just how dire of a situation had befallen them.  They weren’t going anywhere; he couldn’t save anyone locked up in here like this in restraints designed to hold someone with super strength. 

_It’s my fault.  I can’t let my guard down, I landed us here, I froze_ and -

Suddenly, one of the Hydra guards rammed a shock baton into their partner before pulling back their mask to reveal Maria Hill.  Steve blinked rapidly in the face of the ray of heroism cast over him, rekindling the smoldering hopes spluttering within.  Thank God.  Never underestimate the power of good people to surprise you at the worst of moments.  

_If only Bucky had had someone to help him when he needed it most…_

No.  He couldn’t let himself mire in the horror, the guilt, or the implications at what his friend – his _love_ – had become.  His shock had already nearly gotten the three of them killed; Maria Hill had managed to pry open a window of opportunity in their bleak present.  It was time to act.   If he wanted to stop Insight and save Bucky, then he had to buckle down and focus.  Besides, if there was one thing Steve had always been exceptional at, it was bottling down his own pain.  He could process this ( _all of this)_ later when lives were no longer on the line.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending a thanks out to Kaolin for offering a second round of editing :) 
> 
> So you guys know, there WILL be more artwork posted with this fic, but not necessarily on every chapter like The Downward Spiral. I've got a few art commissions saved up to post with appropriate chapters and I'm sure I'll do some more sketching here and there myself :)
> 
> In the event I wind up with more art than chapters and go through and add art to earlier chapters, I'll be sure to make a note of it on the latest chapters when/if I do :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

The stink of ozone and piss assaulted the Asset’s sensitive nose as he was escorted into the bank vault.  It had been days since the chair was last used, but the stench lingered like a threat in the stale air.  He wasn’t supposed to show fear, and so he permitted no flicker of the clawing in his belly or tightening of his chest to show on his face.

He had failed his mission.  That would bring punishment.  The Asset knew this fact as simply as he knew that the sky was blue, or that the M4A1 Assault rifle was fed by 30-round magazines of 5.56mm rounds.  It made no difference how he came to acquire these facts, only that he knew how to use and respond to them.  

The black-uniformed STRIKE team shoved him into the chair as technicians swarmed him like flies on a corpse.  He felt as much as heard the high-pitched whine of their tools: that crackling electrical sound setting him on edge like dentist’s tools drilling into his teeth.  

He let his mind drift elsewhere.  It was not his place to question.  It was not his place to object, but that did not stop him from his thoughts.  

_Traitorous thoughts._   Something about the man on the bridge had caused him to hesitate, and he never hesitated. The blonde man’s appearance tugged at him with a familiarity similar to the way he recognized his master even after a wipe.  During the battle, when he had finally landed a telling blow, pain had flared in his chest as if he had done something wrong.  

But he was following orders!  If he followed orders, he shouldn’t have been given pain!  

The Asset knew that his master did not like it when he went searching through its head for information beyond what was necessary for a mission.  But there was a missing context, and deep in his rotten bones he _knew_ that this was important.  It didn’t matter how he knew, but he knew how he must proceed.  

His mind was a mess of facts cut off from sources.  However, the more he delved, the more fractured, jagged slivers of memory caught him like buried pieces of broken glass as if he were to dig his hand into shifting sand.  

The lingering electric smell in the room clung to his nose, dragging out a scene like a wriggling fish on a line.  

> _The acrid smell of ozone, a flash of blinding blue.  Piss and fear and the press of bodies around him.  Shouting.  Running._

“What is it looking at?”  A hushed voice floated over his head.  A man with a beard barely registered through the montage.   
  
“It does this from time to time between missions.  We think it might be a form of REM, considering its cryosleep holds it at a stage 3 slow-wave Delta.”  The answer came from a tech with a bowtie – 

> _“Oh, Sergeant Barnes isn’t it?”  A pig-faced man with round spectacles and a bowtie leaned over him as he (he?) strained against restraints.  He was scared, bathed in sweat, pungent chemicals and spices cloying him; he was seeing through the body’s eyes, but the defiant words tumbling from his mouth were foreign to his tongue._
> 
> _The name stuck in his teeth like an old meal, worrying at him.  But that didn’t make sense – none of it did.  Hydra created him; summoned him, anchored him to a body so that he might serve their goals.  Maybe these were echoes that belonged to the erstwhile host of this body…_

“So like, sleeping with its eyes open?  Doesn’t that give you the creeps?”  Beard said with a flinch.

> _“Bucky NOO!”  A familiar face – beautiful and warped in_ _anguish.  It was him – the man on the bridge, dressed in blues and reds and white.  Reaching out – for this body – no – for_ him _.  These weren’t just echoes – it was a memory –_ his _memory, and it was important!  
>    
>  He tried to hold onto the image of the man’s face, but it slipped from his grasp as he fell away from him. _
> 
> _A slap of cold, wind tearing at its his flesh like hungry claws.  A dizzying fall – why didn’t he take flight?! - and blackness._

Bowtie dropped his voice to something inaudible to anyone save for the other tech bent over his arm or his own enhanced hearing. “It always gives me the creeps.  It’s been worse over the past couple years, too: more glitches.  There’s a reason it’s been in storage since early last year.”

> _The scrape and drag as his bones cried out in pain, drug along snow-covered rocky earth.  His left arm – not the chitinous armored weapon it was now, but a bloody stump leaving a red trail in the white snow._

The Asset let his arms go pliant as the techs stripped him of his jacket. “Worse how?” Beard sounded concerned, and that sent a paradoxical flush of satisfaction through the Asset.  

> _Hydra soldiers, wearing different uniforms from the black-garbed STRIKE team, speaking Russian around him with hungry eyes and grasping hands.  Fear and arousal raged through him in equal measure as hands massaged over his bare skin. <“You have been in a chrysalis, Mr. Barnes.  Let us see what terrible butterfly emerges.”>_
> 
> _He wanted to be touched. He wanted to escape.  He-_
>
>> _< “A weapon does not want!”> A crack across his face, a sting of betrayal.  Cold fury burning in stony eyes set into a chiseled face with salt and pepper hair and beard.  Master. No – Pierce was his master.  NO!  There was someone else… _

Beard leaned in closer, examining a nearly-healed bruise on his chest that had escaped his notice. 

“It’s not supposed to be able to misfire on staff-” Bowtie continued, “but that doesn’t mean that it hasn’t before, and you’ve seen the metrics of its capabilities.  Let’s just say there’s a reason that the director needed more hands on deck.  

> _“Shhh, shhh, my Carus, do not be frightened.”_ _Another man, older; eyes that seemed kind but covetous.  The words were soothing, yet brought forth a bile-twinge in the back of his throat._

“So this thing… it’s really a – I mean I heard rumors, but I thought that’s all they were.”  Beard reached for his horns. 

“Hey - I wouldn’t do that if I were-”

> _The back of the older man’s head exploded and something snapped inside him, a flare of intense pain and then rage.  He was a feral dog ripped off its chain – these were his enemies!_

The Asset lurched forward with a snarl, swatting Beard away from him with a backhand that sent him flying across the room.  

Bowtie ran for it as the STRIKE team whirled on him, guns cocking.  He was surrounded, a dozen soldiers leveling weapons at him.  _I can take them – I can –_

The Asset froze, heaving in gulps of air, his hands still clenched into fists.  _What in the hell was he doing?!_   

“Damn thing’s rabid!” Beard wheezed as Bowtie half-dragged him out of the bank vault, slamming the gated door shut.  

The STRIKE team held their position, daring him to make another move, but his legs were concrete.  Still, he remained tense, eyes darting between each of the soldiers in an uncomfortable standoff.  

He was forbidden to attack, on his master’s orders.  But he had.  He had _wanted_ to.  He didn’t want to be here; he couldn’t leave.  _I’m going to hurt for that.  Hurt for my failure._

Beard and Bowtie whispered fervently to each other outside the door, their voices crisp in the Asset’s ears.  

“I think it broke my ribs!” Beard hissed with a whistle in his voice.  

“You’re lucky is what you are – that thing could have taken your head off before you knew what was happening.”  Bowtie snapped.  

The tapping of expensive shoes on the polished floor flanked by heavy bootsteps silenced the technician’s exchange.  A minute tingle ran through the pentagram-shaped scar on his left shoulder.  Master was here, and he was angry. 

“Sir.  It’s unstable.  Erratic.”

Pierce didn’t even spare Bowtie a look as he breezed past him into the vault; the heavy disappointment on his face turned the Asset’s blood to ice and sent his focus withdrawing inwards like a cockroach fleeing the light.  

There was no safety in his mind.  

> _A sense of wrongness built in him like a storm, flickers of lightning illuminating dark recesses of his mind that had been buried in shadow.  Things he wasn’t meant to see.  Things that he NEEDED to see.  Things he’d seen before but had been stolen from him.  Déjà vu swam through him like nausea._
> 
> _A rifle in his hands – a Mosin-Nagant .30 caliber.  A man on his knees on uneven gravel before him, hazel eyes large with fear.  His own hands – hands that were unfailingly steady – trembled like those of his victims when Hydra’s Demon had come for them._
> 
> _“Kill the prisoner – that is an order!”  
>    
>  He performed the action like a machine fed a coin.  His gun snapped up and fired within the space of a breath, the crack through the cold air reverberated across distant mountains and shattered something deep within himself.  _
> 
> _The gun clattered to the ground and the scene swirled away._
>
>> _He was tied to a cold stone slab by delicate restraints with intricate, familiar runes.  Yet despite their melodic tinkling as he rattled the cuffs, the thin chains held him faster than thick steel ever could._
>> 
>> _Unintelligible words poured from the older man’s mouth like the babble of a brook as he held a curved knife, shimmering black like a solid oil slick.  His body locked up as if he had been frozen solid in the cryo chamber, eyes fixed in open terror – unable to move, unable to breathe.  His skin crawled as the knife drew closer to his arm, as if a thousand ants marched under the hardened plates of his shoulder._
> 
> _The room swam again.  He was still bound, and the room’s structure was identical – the same size, the same glyphs spaced evenly about the beams, but the figure above him was different and the smell distorting from an acrid stench of electricity to an alien ozone that set every hair on his body on edge.  His chest stung, a raw nerve exposed and bleeding._
> 
> _And then… his face.  Blue eyes luminous against flush cheeks tickled with golden hair.  An angel glowing gold and blue – his savior.  The man on the bridge._
> 
> _“Bucky?” Two faces – the same two faces – overlaid – showing concern, surprise and relief._
> 
> _There was something there.  A connection – like to his master, but one filled with light and hope rather than pain and order._

A sudden slap across his face snapped his head to the side, shattering his thoughts into a thousand pieces.  

His master’s scowling face swam into focus.  The Asset swallowed, brows furrowing as he turned, pleading, “The man on the bridge – who was he?”  Surely, his master had to know.  

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”  His master’s tone was flat, unamused.  

No… that wasn’t right. He remembered that – the shield – _star spangled man_ – but that wasn’t what his mind was stuck on.  There was something else.  The realization tumbled out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop it.  “I knew him.”  

He knew he shouldn’t have said it the moment the words left his lips.  But it was too late. The room fell silent, as if in anticipation for his punishment.  Dread clutched his chest, but no strike came.  No word of pain that would send him spasming uncontrolled on the floor.  His master took a seat across from him, face tight with barely-contained anger, and somehow that was worse.  “Your work has been a gift to mankind.  You shaped the century.  And I need you to do it one more time.”

Disappointment crushed him.  This time, he let the wince pinch his features.  The STRIKE leader, Rumlow, leered at him with a hunger in his eyes, drifting closer. 

His master continued, eyes boring unwaveringly into his own.  “Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos.  Tomorrow we’re going to give it a push.  But, if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine.  And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Maybe his master’s earnestness was founded.  Maybe the world needed him, but the man on the bridge – he was _something_ to him.  Something important.  He didn’t want to fight him – but he knew his master’s orders would compel him to do so again. The growing disquiet of his mind became a roar.  Something tightened in his chest, resolute and defiant.  The most he could muster, however, was a regretful reiteration.  “But I knew him.”  

His lips pursed in defeat; there was no stopping what came next.  He was going to be punished for this – the man on the bridge was going to be taken from him – _again_.  His master was wrong; he’d lied to him – he wasn’t the good man he masqueraded as.  There was no escaping this fate.  No matter how hard he wanted otherwise, he was trapped in an endless Sisyphean cycle.  

All at once, realization shone through the spotty darkness of his mind: this epiphany was going to be taken from him, too.  However, some truth he had buried deep inside told him that it was better to be forced to follow commands than to be like Rumlow who followed his master’s orders willingly.  

His master rose quickly, irritation shutting closed over the earnest mask he’d used to deliver his pep talk.

The Asset went to follow him, but without turning, his master’s voice snapped like a whip.  “Stay seated.  That’s an order.”  His legs went slack beneath him, and the Asset couldn’t have pried himself out of the chair had the room caught fire.  

Pierce pinned Bowtie with a glare, “Prep it.”  

“It’s been out of cryo freeze too long.” the technician began to splutter.  “And with the bond weakening-”

“Then wipe it and start over,” Pierce snapped.  “It only has to function for a few more days.”

 _What?_ His breath quickened, sweat beading on his brow.  

Silently, the technicians approached, pressed him back against the chair and secured its built-in restraints around his wrists.  Once closed, the runic patterns around the cuffs formed a complete circle and the Asset felt the strength drain away from his limbs, leaving him weak as a kitten.  

“Stay here.” Pierce turned his attention to Rumlow, “Make sure it’s fed before it returns to duty – we need it at full strength for Insight’s launch.”

Gooseflesh prickled the Asset’s skin as Rumlow circled behind him with a lascivious grin.  The Asset could already imagine the ghost of the STRIKE leader’s breath on the back of his neck, his rough, calloused hand squeezing his thigh.  Disgust and shame warred with traitorous arousal and the first nipping of hunger.  

As he sank his fangs into the proffered rubber mouthguard, the Asset leveled a last autonomous glare of defiance straight at Pierce before the vicious hum of the chair cycled up.  The debasing crown lowered around his head, cold metal plates pressed against his temples, and pain seared away every scrap of progress he had made to the sound of his own strangled screams.  


	4. Chapter 4

Two down, one to go. 

Steve’s vintage boots pounded across the Helicarrier flight deck as he raced for the edge.  There was something inherently _right_ about being back in the same uniform he’d worn fighting alongside the Howling Commandos the better part of a century ago.  It moved and responded better than even the well-crafted modern stealth-suit did, framing his mind for the task at hand.  

He didn’t slow down, he didn’t hesitate before diving off the edge of IN-03 it as he radioed Sam for a pick-up.  

He trusted the people on his team completely.  When the job was done and the adrenaline washed out of him with a heady rush, he could entertain the fear of what might have gone wrong.  But for now, he had a mission. 

\--

The Asset was a raw nerve.  The acrid burn of electricity still stung the hairs in his nose, a lingering threat of failure.  His heart beat against his ribcage like a racehorse, his muscles hot and limber _– more than usual?_ The familiar, seizing chill was just a ghost in his mind.

He existed for one purpose – to accomplish the mission his master commanded.  It was not The Asset’s place to question, although he could not shake a clinging disquiet.  He knew enough to realize that being instructed to remain in his true form was unusual.  But there was more to it than that.  A presence on the battlefield that he could feel in his chest like a familiar song.   

It made no difference.  He had his mission, and his master had been very generous for this one: there was no need for stealth, guises or meticulous removal of evidence. He could stretch his wings and unleash his full potential.  

He set upon the squadron of SHIELD quinjet pilots like a fox loose in a henhouse.  

They never had a chance. 

\--

Sam caught Steve out of the air with a sturdy forearm clasp, hauling him out of his dead-drop with a primal shout. 

The final helicarrier had risen above the other two, a bloated whale of a beast lifted by repulsor engines with all the grace of a zeppelin.  

Sam rocketed him up, streaking towards the beast and overtaking it as if it were standing still, dropping Steve down onto the flight deck.  Steve hit the ground running, and in a moment, Sam was right by his side. 

“You know, you’re a lot heavier than you look.” Sam grinned, and Steve felt his spirits lifting.  Two of the ships’ targeting systems had already been hijacked with time to spare.  They could finish this together.  

\--

The updraft from the explosions vaulted the Asset high into the sky, the blossom of heat a gratifying reward for a job well done.  

His eyes locked onto his primary targets jogging across the tarmac of Helicarrier IN-01.  The mission parameters had been unambiguous: kill Captain America and prevent both him and his allies from reaching the mainframe of the Helicarriers.  

Thousands of feet up, that should prove a simple matter.  He stayed out of visual range until they were near the edge of the ship.  Then, like a wrecking ball, he swooped in feet-first, driving the primary target – designation Captain America – over the brink.  

His partner engaged a set of mechanical wings from a device on his back and leapt after the Captain.  A feral smile spread across the Asset’s face.  A mission that allowed for flight was rare enough, but the idea of midair combat sizzled something in his blood he supposed must be excitement.  

\--

The Winter Soldier was unlike any other combatant Sam Wilson had ever encountered in the air.  Sam’s pack had been built for aerial rescue, combating high-speed aircrafts, and fly-by strikes on ground targets.  It had _not_ been designed to help him hit another small, maneuverable opponent.  If Sam missed him on a fly-by, it took time to circle around and come at him again.  If Sam dropped beneath a certain speed, he dropped like a rock – which was sometimes useful with particular maneuvers, but ultimately a limitation the demon didn’t have and seemed to realize just how to use it to his advantage.  

The demon may not have been able to keep up with the speeds of his EXO-7 FALCON pack, but he was just as much a threat in the air as he had been on the ground.  His slower speeds allowed him to bank sharper and pull about-faces on a dime with the finesse of an acrobat.  He used the helicarriers’ moving parts like a jungle gym rather than the obstacles they posed to Sam.  Sam needed to keep his arms on his mechanical wings for his more advanced maneuvers, but the Winter Soldier’s full control of his own _fucking organic demon wings_ let him continue to fire off shots as he laid pursuit.  To make matters worse, the demon somehow managed to use Sam’s jet-trails to stay right on his ass, spiraling and darting and riding his blind spots. 

One moment he was above him, but by the time Sam rolled over to get a shot at him he had disappeared into the hardware of one of the mounted cannons.  He banked around to find him again, but the demon was gone – and like a hornet somewhere in the house, Sam was a lot more comfortable when he knew where the asshole was.  

Suddenly, he dropped out of the helicarrier’s shadowed undercarriage like a rock, landing hard with his boots square on Sam’s back.  With a sickening wrench, he heard the sharp whine of metal and sudden blare of warning sensors.  His wing!  The fucker had _ripped off his fucking wing!_  Then, those boots kicked off of him, sending him into a death spiral with the roof of the Triskelion rushing up to meet him. 

\--

Steve gripped the chassis of the massive helicarrier, the ground thousands of feet below and growing more distant as each second ticked away.  He’d barely managed to grab a hold of a protruding portion of the turgid aerial vehicle in time, trying desperately to keep his mind off of a similar scene seventy years ago: Bucky clinging to the side of a racing train, the metal groaning, too far away to grab-

_No!_

Sudden movement raced past him, tearing his attention away from the memory threatening to swallow him whole. 

When Sam had taken out the targeting system of the second helicarrier, his aerial acrobatics had been breathtaking to watch.  He had performed barrel rolls and evasive moves that would have a fighter pilot swallowing his tongue in jealousy, outracing and outmaneuvering the quinjets and helicarrier’s cannons that were unable to keep up with him.  So his heart froze in his chest as he watched the Soldier – _Bucky-_ land on his back midair with the precision of a bird of prey, and rip off one of the mechanical wigs as easily as tearing the lid off of canister of coffee.  

Sam plummeted out of the sky, and the memories rushed back: Bucky’s echoing scream as his body disappeared into the haze of the ravine, Sam’s commiseratory account of his wingman’s similar death.  “ _Nothing I could do._   _It’s like I was up there to watch.”_

The metal whined under his hands as Sam dropped below Steve’s line of sight, but his stomach felt like it continued the fall.  

Suddenly, his earpiece crackled to life, bringing Steve back with it, “Cap!  Cap, come in!  Are you OK?!” 

_Sam!  Thank god!  “_ Yeah – I’m here.  I’m still on the helicarrier.  Where are you?”  

“I’m grounded.  Suit’s down.  Sorry, Cap.”  He sounded out of breath, but OK.  

“Don’t worry.  I got it.”  Steve clenched his jaw and started climbing. 

\--

Bucky stood on the other side of the catwalk of the control center, poised between Steve and the targeting system array, still as a stone gargoyle.  

He was there – _right there_.  Steve’s heart ached to reach for him, but there were lives – _millions_ of lives on the line, and that _had_ to come first.  “People are gonna die, Buck.  I can’t let that happen,” he implored, hoping that the name, the tone, the uniform he wore, _anything_ would spark something of his friend in the demon that stood before him.

No flash of recognition touched his face; instead, the blank look in his eyes and square of his shoulders spoke volumes.  Steve’s heart sunk.  “Please don’t make me do this.”  He wasn’t ashamed to plead.

The Soldier didn’t attack, but he didn’t move out of the way, either.  There was no indication that he even understood what Steve was saying.  They only had minutes until the carriers went online and linked with the satellite.  

Steve sent up a silent prayer and hurled his shield.

\--

A thrill seeped through the cracks of the Asset’s stony resolve as they fell to blows.  Had there been music, this fight would have felt more like a tightly choreographed dance than his typical exterminations that hardly passed for combat.   

He knew that fighting an opponent this well-matched was virtually unheard of, and yet it tugged on some oddly familiar thread buried deep in the back of his head.  The shield his target used to press him back burned in his mind – _there was something important about that symbol -_

But yet, the mission compelled him – a geas onto his soul.  

He was a serpent, weaving and striking around the shield with deadly precision – but the Captain fell into time with him, deflecting and blocking in turn.  _This is familiar – I’ve done this – recently!_ Yet, combat possessed his movements despite the ragged tear in his confidence nagging at the back of his mind.  

He feigned high, the shield raised, and he fired low on the Captain’s unprotected legs; his bullet finally hit the mark – 

A surprised cry tore from his throat - the sting sizzled his nerves as if he had been the one hit!  Something was wrong _!_  
  
\--

The Winter Soldier should have pressed the attack – it would have made the most tactical advantage, and yet he fell back with a strangled scream after scoring a grazing wound along Steve’s thigh.

Steve didn’t have time to question it.  He slammed the button to open up the targeting array, whirling back to face Buck- _the Soldier_ – before he managed to slice open his exposed back with a wicked set of knives.  

For a moment, there was hesitation in those painfully familiar blue-grey eyes.  Brittle hope flared in Steve’s breast, but then like a flip of a switch, the confusion was replaced with a craven snarl.  The Soldier pounced on him like a big cat, barreling him off the edge of the platform and onto the hard metal catwalk of the level below.  The replacement targeting blade was violently knocked out of his hands and sent skittering down to the glass-bottomed belly of the chamber.  

The Soldier straddled him, reeling back and balling his left hand into a fist.  Steve bucked, dislodging him long enough to get out from under him and drop down into a hard landing stomach-first on the transparent flooring.  

It was a damn good thing Steve had lost any sense of vertigo a long time ago, because D.C. sprawled out thousands of feet beneath him.  But the Soldier was quick on his heels, and by the time Steve had gotten back up to his feet, his opponent had already beaten him to the targeting chip.  

The moment the Soldier secured the chip, he pressed his attack, but an erratic desperation tainted his once-precise technique.  Steve’s heart broke to fight back, but he had to get back up there before countless civilians paid for his failure with their lives.   Yet, despite the brutality behind the Winter Soldier’s attacks, Steve couldn’t help but fight to disable rather than match his intensity.  As much as he didn’t want to believe that this – _this demon!-_ was what had become of Bucky, he couldn’t ignore the chance he was still in there _somewhere_.  

He closed the distance, barely dodging a vicious rake of the demon’s claws.  Teeth sunk into his shoulder and Steve slammed his head backwards into his jaw.  In the half-second that bough him, he grabbed the Soldier by the throat and slammed him to the ground, taking the fight to the floor. 

Steve sent up a silent thanks to Natasha for teaching him a few maneuvers while training at SHIELD – and managed to get Bucky into an arm-bar.  Then, with a wrench that elicited a scream that turned his stomach, broke his arm.  Despite this, the Soldier held fast onto the chip.  Steve maneuvered quickly, converting his grab into a stranglehold – he needed to put him out!  The Soldier’s wicked left arm seized his wrist, overlapping chitinous plates shifting as he tightened his grip.  And then, with an unholy display of strength, managed to pry one of Steve’s arms away.  For a moment Steve thought he was going to lose control of him.  Thinking fast, Steve let his arm go loose.  Suddenly lacking resistance, Bucky overshot, his arm slamming hard into the gap between Steve’s legs.  Steve snapped his thighs tight around the arm, pinning it and reclaimed his chokehold.  

Bucky was a frightened wild animal in his grasp, twisting and struggling and speaking only in unintelligible growls as Steve held him fast, heart aching.  His tail squeezed painfully around Steve’s already injured thigh, and he tried to drive his horns back into Steve face, but he was too close and the angle was wrong.  Steve had his neck in the crook of his arms and felt his pulse constrict before – finally – his body went limp in his arms, the chip slipping from his loose fingers.

The moment Bucky was out, Steve shoved out from under him, grabbed the chip, and raced back towards the targeting system. 

\--

The blackness rolled away and the Asset sprung to his feet with a feral snarl.  In the blink between the stranglehold and now, his target had managed to climb halfway back up to the platform.  In a flash, his thigh-pistol was back in his hands; he took aim and fired.

The Asset was no stranger to pain.  He could fight injured – barely letting grievous injuries affect his combat prowess.  He could fight through broken bones and gunshots, flayed skin or sometimes even the _hunger_ that sometimes was left in their wake.  But this pain was different: it was equal parts punishment and soul-searing _wrongness._ He had his orders that moved him like a puppet through a series of gunshots; but something else – something deeper – was desperately trying to claw free.  He was a better shot than this – two shots hit the target in non-vital areas, each one sending a flare of pain through his core.  They barely slowed The Captain down as he continued to climb up the platform and made his way back to the targeting system.  

He snarled, the press of failure crushing in on him, and squeezed the trigger once more.  

A red stain blossomed across the Captain’s midsection as fiery veins of agony tore through the Asset.  He dropped to his knees with a scream, his world a breaking into a mess of paradox and torment. 

\--

Steve fought through the pain, although Bucky’s anguished cries from below hurt worse than the gunshot.  He resisted the urge to turn back to discover their source, or to guard his exposed back as he stood before the console.  For better or worse, no further shots rang out.  He prioritized he mission until finally – thank God! –  the chip slid home into place.  “Charlie lock,” he gasped through the comm link.  

Over her protests, he ordered Maria Hill to begin firing.  They couldn’t risk Hydra having a back-door into the targeting system and manage to seize control back from the mouth of their hard-won success.  Plus, the further the helicarriers climbed into the air, the more widespread the debris would fall, jeopardizing more lives.

As the first volley of cannon fire rocked the ship, Steve felt the weight of responsibility slough off of him.  He’d done it.  He didn’t have to fight any longer; he could finally be selfish.  

A sharp, pained scream from below wrenched Steve’s attention back to Bucky – pinned and struggling beneath a girder, the glass fishbowl of the helicarrier’s belly riddled with holes and growing fissures. 

\--

Uncomprehendingly, The Asset watched as the Captain leveraged the massive truss off of him.  He’d tried to kill him – _he’d failed his mission!_ – but instead of taking advantage and ending his existence, he was… freeing him?

The Asset wriggled out, panting and gaping as the Captain let the girder fall heavily back to the floor, looking just as wrecked as he felt.  For a moment, they stared at each other, the Asset’s head a jumble of confusion as he looked over at his _Target? –  Master? – Mission!_

The orders still rode him like a jockey, unrelenting.  Despite having failed in his primary objective, they weren’t through with him yet! 

“You know me!” The Captain was bleeding profusely, yet he poured his heart out through his words.  

They settled like a discordant note on the Asset’s spine.  “NO I DON’T!” he roared.  The Captain didn’t even bother to try to avoid his blatantly telegraphed punch.  The slam of his left fist into the Captain’s jaw sent a new crash of misery reverberating through him.  The frayed seams of his programming tore a little wider. 

“Bucky – you’ve known me your whole life!”  The Captain pressed, staggering back to his feet like a base-weighted punching bag.  

His hand balled into a fist again, the words sandpaper across his raw nerves.  _Lies – they were lies – his work was a gift to mankind - he was doing good!  This man couldn’t know him_ –

But the name caught and pulled at him like a knife in the gut.  “SHUT UP!” He slammed his fist into his face again – welcoming the sympathetic pain that kicked back into him like recoil. 

Why wouldn’t he fight back?!

The Captain stood straighter, dropping completely out of a defensive stance and opened his arms.  “I’m not gonna fight you.”  The shield fell from his slack hands, down through a massive hole in the floor and into the flaming Potomac.  “You’re my _friend_.”  He tore off his helmet, laying himself bare before him – his face a swollen, purpled and bloody pastiche of….

An image sliced into his mind – a smaller man, bloodied and bruised – _I could do this all day-_

He shook his head violently with a snarl, trying to turn the ghost from his mind.  He was failing.  They were going to punish him, burn it all out of him – they’d done it before and would do it again!  

With a bestial roar, he tackled the man to the ground.  “ _You’re my mission!”_   His arm drew back, fingers tightening behind his claws. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes!  Remember who you are!”  The words slammed into him like a bolt of electricity from a defibrillator – rousing something deep within, filling his limbs with a strength he’d forgotten he’d had. 

His arm stilled, hesitating.  

His eyes stung as emotions punched him from a source he couldn’t remember. 

Staggering, blinding pain hit again but this time, it wasn’t the backlash from hurting his target – his mission - _his friend -_ that lanced through him.  Three thousand feet down, a bullet found its mark in the heart of Alexander Pierce – and it might as well have hit The Asset. 

 “ _MASTER!”_ he screamed, his voice a warped, inhuman screech. His wings snapped open automatically to go to him, but the pain was too much, it was too far – and then somehow it managed to get worse.  His word became pain-incarnate.  Fresh blood coursed in hot rivulets from the pentagram-shaped scar carved into his shoulder.  Every nerve in his body had caught fire.  Each heartbeat was torture as he felt the life spilling from him.  Had his muscles not locked in rigid agony, he would have fallen into a crumpled heap of misery.   It felt like someone had detonated a brick of C4 in his head, nearly causing him to black out before an overbearing sense of failure reverberated though his mind like secondary explosions – and then –

The orders drained from him like water in a basin after the plug had been pulled.  

Master Pierce was dead.  

“You’re my mission,”The words were weak protests of confusion; his arm hung impotently in the air, fingers loose.  He didn’t want to fight him.  He didn’t… he didn’t _have_ to fight him any longer.  

“Then finish it,” The Captain persisted, facing him boldly despite one of his eyes having swollen shut.  “Because I’m with you till the end of the line.”  

In a final _coup de grace_ , the words tore his already ragged seams wide open.  His emotions spilled forth, overwhelming him:  horror at the injuries he’d inflicted and a bone-deep familiarity that extended past everything he’d ever known.  There was something from before the pain of his existence, something he didn’t have to destroy or serve but _protect._   

But before he had chance to speak, the ground shattered beneath them and the man – The Captain – his master? - his _friend!_ – fell away.  

Time seemed to slow as he watched him fall, pulling at his heart like a loose thread from a sweater.  

_No._

He pulled his wings in tight against his body and dove after him.  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the "recap" chapters that parallel Captain America: the Winter Soldier! Coming soon: NEW content/Storyline!
> 
> Thanks again to Kaolin who is jumping on board as a beta, and Kamiki/Shipperhipster as always for being my co-writer, co-conspirator and perpetual motivator <3


	5. Chapter 5

The Asset stood over the Captain’s unconscious body, debris raining down from the crippled helicarriers as they continued their slow-motion plummet into the Potomac.  

The Captain’s measured, but slow, breathing meant that he was injured, but alive.  He had already been out by the time he’d caught him, although the whiplash from when he’d snapped his wings open probably hadn’t helped matters.  Nonetheless, a midair grab should have ultimately proved less damaging than hitting the water at that velocity, or the subsequent drowning risk.  

If the way he fought was any indication, The Captain was more than human.  As long as his allies found him in a reasonable timeframe, he should pull through.  That thought settled oddly reassuringly on his shoulders.  He wasn’t sure precisely why it was so important to him or why he needed to protect this man, but he couldn’t deny the impulse that had bubbled out of the ichor of his soul.  It had felt more _right_ than anything else he could dredge out of his memories, and that fact alone was troubling.  He’d been ordered to kill him, and he’d nearly succeeded, yet The Captain had refused to fight him once he had accomplished his primary objective.  He had said he’d _known_ him.  The words brought an electric sizzle down the nape of his neck.  And that face – even purpled and bloody from his own knuckles – prodded at something walled off inside him that seeped a bittersweet, bilious yearning.  

Still, it was the very real ache in his chest that unsettled The Asset the most.  A brief closing of his eyes, a reaching out for the invisible connection that tied his heart to the man at his feet confirmed what he already suspected: this was his Master. 

The Asset was sure of very few things, but he was certain that wasn’t why he’d felt the need to save him.  He had felt nothing but fear for Master Pierce – and it was only the orders that puppeted him that compelled him to do anything for the man.  The Asset – he stilled, brows furrowing.  No.  Not “The Asset”.  He did not belong to Master Pierce any longer.  His new master was unconscious, he had not saddled him with any standing orders yet.  

The realization hit him like the crack of a whip: he was free.  

At least for the moment.  He needed to get the fuck away before that noose tightened around his neck.  

He pulled his eyes away from The Captain’s face and looked out over the river, breathing in a deep lung full of the smoke-choked air.  Hydra’s plans lay in ruins all around him, cast in the destruction of the Triskelion and the massive helicarriers. The hot wind carried glowing cinders like drifting stars through the darkened air.  It was beautiful.  

With a shiver, he pulled the energy that flowed through his veins inward, summoning the illusory guise to mask his inhuman features.  If he wanted use of his left arm, however, there was nothing that could be done about that tell.  Not until he could find some more subtle clothing than the tac suit Hydra had dressed him in.

He had a mission. Not one he had been saddled with or commanded to follow, but perhaps the first one in – a long time?  Forever? – that he decided for himself: get away, get safe.  

Gripping his healing arm with a grit of his teeth, the Soldier trudged off towards the tree line with a sense of purpose.  

*  
His mind was full of facts – like loose sheafs of paper that had been torn from unknown books.  His arm should heal within a couple hours from a simple break.  Remaining in his true form would stand out and jeopardize his mission to elude recapture.  He needed civilian clothing to blend in – in the back of his mind he knew more than remembered that there had been missions that had required stealth.  With the turmoil keeping most people inside or staring at the sky, it was a simple enough matter to slip into a used clothing store that had closed early.  There, he procured an alternate set of clothes plus an extra set and a pack to store his gear and collect other necessary supplies. 

The safe house was riskier.  He ripped the address out of his mind like a page from a phone book and took a circuitous route to the location.  The place turned out to be a nondescript backdoor sandwiched between an H&R Block and a nail salon.  Normally, he would have surveiled the site for at least a few hours before risking entry, but he needed to get to ground before Hydra was able to marshal and realize that he was missing.  The security system looked at least twenty years out of date, and he hoped that the coating of grime that left the pad sticky was indicative of legitimate disuse and not just a layer of camouflage.  He pulled a security code out of the recesses of his mind and the door clicked open with a grinding beep.  

He opened the door to reveal a thick carpet of dust coating the interior.  Luck, it seemed, was in his favor.  The place was more of a resource cache than a safe house: a stale scent hung in the air and a brief inspection of the layout revealed only a two-room floor plan that didn’t extend to the front of the strip-mall.  His search yielded no computers, no cellular phones.   In the drawers of a simple desk was an old-fashioned ledger that made record of withdrawals and deposits from the site; the most recent date was September 25, 1995.  He tossed the pad into his bag along with a dozen or so packets of MREs from the cabinets. 

He easily pried open the squat safe in the wall, revealing a cache of money, fake passports missing photos (all out of date), weapons, and a few sets of vehicle and safety deposit box keys.  He distributed the cash between his bag and his pockets, took the keys and left the rest.  

It was a good location: well hidden, fairly well-stocked, and apparently abandoned.  The likelihood that anyone in Hydra was going to check in on a twenty-year-old safe house was low, but it was still a higher risk than he was willing to take at the moment.  

He stayed only long enough to go through his gear for any sign of a tracker.  Another fact floated to the surface of his mind: when he was shot, his rapid healing forced the bullets out of the wounds; Hydra wouldn’t have been able to keep a subdermal tracker implanted in his body.  He did, however, find three trackers embedded in his uniform, one inside the grip of his Sig Sauer, and a tracker round in one of his spare magazines.  He wanted to dig in, rest, and figure out what the _hell_ he was going to do next, but finding these clinched it - he sure as hell couldn’t stay here now.

As he left the safe house, he planted all five of the devices on vehicles heading in different directions.  

*

By nightfall, he had made his way past the veneer of the upscale political district to the Washington Highlands, Southeast of the river.  It was startling how quickly the city transitioned to an impoverished slum, riddled with crumbling infrastructure and an implacable rancid note in the air. 

There was no shortage of bolt-holes to choose from where he could lose himself right under the noses of SHIELD and Hydra.  He settled on a freestanding brick building on 6th Street with good sight lines less than two blocks from the nearest metro station.  Gated metal shutters covered the large plate glass windows that had already been plastered by large, sun-faded “going out of business” posters.  Two gaping holes had been punched (shot?) in the large “Blockbuster” sign that sat at an angle above the front doors.  

It would work.  There were other locations in the area that may have made for a more conventional refuge, with smaller windows and higher ground, but the last thing he needed was inadvertently choosing a location already in use for other less-than-savory business and drawing unwanted attention. 

The back of the building had a loading dock with a sheet metal door secured with a padlock that looked like it belonged on a bicycle rack.  He made short work of it, rattled the door open, and slipped inside. 

Behind the empty maze of shelving units of the storefront was a windowless backroom, bathroom with running (if slightly off-color) water, and even the skeleton of an antiquated security system.  It took little effort to get the blocky surveillance cameras and boxy televisions that had been left behind running again.  

Finally.  He was alone.  He was secure.  He had what he needed to survive for several days.  Yet, he found himself remaining tense, waiting for the punishment, for a summons, for a word of pain or the cold coffin of cryosleep.  Minutes ticked by as he stood, rigid, eyes fixed on the security feeds.  When nothing came, slowly, ever so slowly, he began to uncoil.  Once it began, the effect built – relief spiraling into a level of exhaustion that left him feeling like a balloon with all of the air let out.  

He collapsed into a seat in the corner and rummaged out one of the MRE packets.  The rations were powdery and off-smelling, but not the least palatable thing he’d ever eaten.  An image tore loose from the depths of his mind of being tossed rancid meat by a man with a face like a brick wearing a STRIKE uniform.  The taste was revolting, and the circle of men had laughed at him as if it were some kind of joke, but the meat had stayed down.  

He shook his head, gripping his hair hard enough to suppress the sudden wave of nausea that had emerged alongside the memory.  

He was past exhausted, but he wasn’t allowed to sleep – he… wait.  No.  No that was wrong.  He had no orders.  No technicians were going to perform maintenance on him (even though he was malfunctioning), no punishment was coming despite having spectacularly failed his mission.  There would be no wipe.  

Hysterical laughter shook his shoulders as his guise melted away.  

**

He woke with a start – not to the painful pins-and-needles of sensation rushing back into frozen limbs, but to the fearful realization that he’d fallen asleep.   He’d broken standing orders, he’d be punished, he- 

He was _safe_.  

The thought was as alien to him as if he had just been handed a pie and asked to compose a symphony with it. 

He glanced up at the monitors - the grainy black-and-white images not displaying anything out of the ordinary save for the fact he had somehow managed to sleep straight through till morning.  No master had summoned him in the middle of the night.  He’d successfully evaded Hydra’s recapture, for now at least.  

The dull ache still gripped his chest, but the pain was nowhere near as insistent as it had been the day before.  Tentatively, he closed his eyes and cast out for the golden thread that linked him to his master and sensed a tug to the North-West, a distance of perhaps only a handful of miles away.  The Captain was still alive, and recovering by the feel of it.  For some reason, that information brought a wash of relief.  

Why _hadn’t_ his master summoned him?  Was he still unconscious, or did he not know that he had the ability to do so?  He’d given him no orders when they fought – he could have stopped his attack with just a few words!

It was probably only because of Pierce’s orders that he had even been able to engage The Captain in combat to begin with.  The realization hit him like a two-by-four: if he had had the ability to attack Pierce, he would have.  Hydra and Pierce: they were all he knew, but he _hated_ them.  He’d… _forgotten_ how much he had hated them. The visage of the chair, the electricity, the terrifying, excruciating burning away of his memories hit him so hard he could smell burning hair.  No he hadn’t simply forgotten: time after time they’d _taken_ from him how much he hated them.  The ridges along his back protruded as he gave a full-body shudder, forcing those memories back down like swallowing bile.  

He didn’t want to think about Master Pierce.  

The Captain – no… no there was a name there; a significance.  Things seemed – maybe clearer wasn’t the right word – but less jumbled since he had slept.  

How long had it been since he’d _actually_ slept and not just been shoved into cryofreeze until his master needed him for another mission?  

_The cold stung his lips, tears freezing halfway down his cheeks as he stumbled into the cryo-chamber.  The frigid temperatures were torture, but he was so exhausted that he almost welcomed it.  The mission had lasted nearly a week, leaving him run ragged.  Even though he was nearly seeing double – he couldn’t rest – standing orders prohibited sleep.  His master didn’t care that the target hadn’t arrived on location until-_

No – focus! 

_The Captain: designation Captain America.  Real name… real name…_ he wracked his brain, but it was like trying to catch an eel one-handed.  _Hadn’t his name been in the mission debrief?  No, that was… a different mission?  Recently.  They… they wiped me after I failed to kill him the first time – without even putting me away and allowing me some semblance of rest!_

 _“But I knew him”_ _– a crush of resignation and defiance, tensing in anticipation for the punishment that he knew would come._ The Soldier’s mouth went dry.  The Captain was important to him.  He had remembered something, enough to defy Master Pierce, and it had been taken from him. 

He’d remembered once.  He could do it again.  

He hadn’t wanted to believe the Captain when he said he’d known him on the helicarrier.  He’d called him his friend, but he was a demon: a possession, a _weapon_.  How could he ever have had a friend?  

Now?  He still wasn’t sure how it could be true, but he was beginning to believe.  Master Pierce had been robbing him of his memories, keeping him complacent and resetting him every fucking time he realized he was a prisoner.  The Captain had told him to remember who he was.  _Who_.  He’d called him a name: Bucky.  James Buchanan Barnes.  

The name reverberated in his mind like thunder, moving his lips and give breath and life to it, “James Buchanan Barnes.”  It was the name of a _person_.  

He fished out the ledger from his backpack and set a pen on paper, scrawling out the name in crisp black ink: James Buchanan Barnes. 

_“Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”  He cocked his head and flashed his best smirk at his friend, a skinny blonde with a face like the Captain’s-_

He started, pen hanging in midair over the paper, breath catching in his throat.  

“Steve.” The name sprang to his tongue like a prayer.  

He eagerly tore open another MRE packet, fueling his body with the chalky rations as he tried to chase that mental thread, but the memory was gone like the fog of breath on a mirror.  

Maybe these memories were his, or maybe they were echoes of whatever poor soul once occupied the body he had been summoned into.  Regardless, this was the one order The Captain- _Steve_ – had given him (though he hadn’t even phrased it properly to actually command him), he was eager to pursue anyway: remember who you are.  Maybe he really had been someone.

Maybe he could be again.  

Over and over he wrote his name on the lines of the ledger, shaking loose fragments of memories like pennies from a piggy bank.  He recorded everything.  They may have just been snippets without order or context, but they were _his_ and so help him, they wouldn’t be stolen from him again.  


	6. Chapter 6

  
Steve’s ribs cinched around his heart: the clash of recognition and horror cast across Bucky’s face as a splash of wetness fell from his eyes.  He’d gotten through – _it was him!_

Then the world fell away with the shattering of glass.  His voice caught in throat as he reached upwards, watching helplessly as Bucky’s frozen gasp grew more distant.    
  
And for a moment, he was flying.  They’d stopped Insight; and maybe – just maybe – Bucky remembered him.  He let the scream of warping metal and the rush of wind in his ears drown out his fear and worry.  He was finished.  Darkness closed in like static on a television, but the last image that burned into his mind was a winged shape backlit against the burning helicarrier and a clawed hand reaching out towards him.     
  
*  
A steady beeping and falsetto blues music welcomed Steve back to tentative consciousness.  For a moment, he wondered if he’d been through a meat grinder; then the memories from the last twenty four hours hit him.  
  
Bucky was alive.  

Bucky was out there somewhere. 

Bucky was _a demon_. 

The twisted horns that curved over his head and massive batlike wings were an unmistakable combination that made Steve’s stomach squirm but his fingers twitch for a pencil.  

There was nowhere for Steve’s mind to escape any longer – the countdown to a potential doomsday had been thwarted, his friends and allies were safe, and Steve was apparently not going anywhere soon.  He didn’t even have to open his eyes to recognize the antiseptics and disinfectants odor combination of a hospital.  Wonderful.  Apparetly, he hadn’t gotten enough of those despite the serum.  

The music was a surprise, however.     
  
Steady breathing to his right caught his attention (a welcome distraction),and for a moment hope flared in Steve’s chest.  Had Bucky brought him in?  

Steve canted his head to the side and opened his eyes.  A soft warmth of both disappointment and fondness spread through his chest.  Sam.  Looking a hell of a lot better than he felt.  “On your left.”  

Talking didn’t feel great, but the relief-tinted rueful huff Sam rewarded him with made it worth it.  

“Think I managed to lap you this time, Cap,” Sam’s milk-and-honey voice was a balm to his ears.  “Doctors finished with me six hours ago.  Twisted ankle, concussion, a few cracked ribs.  So, bruised and battered to hell and back, but can’t keep me down.”

Thank God for Sam.  “Six hours? How long have I been out?”  

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Man, when was the last time you even slept?”  Steve darted his eyes away and Sam’s expression tightened to a damn good impression of his own ‘Captain America is Disappointed in You’ face.  “You haven’t since this whole thing started, have you?”

Maybe that was the case, but Steve hadn’t had the luxury of downtime.  Besides, the serum let him run for days on end before crashing when he needed to.  Steve abruptly changed the subject.  “Everyone make it out okay?”  

Sam’s face smoothed, “Yeah, man, you did good.  Can’t promise that our asses are out of the fire when it comes to how the feds or whoever the hell else is going to be cleaning up this FUBAR situation, though.”

“Bucky?” Steve had to ask.

Sam’s expression hardened.  “He got away.  Beats me how a damn demon can disappear in the middle of D.C., but then again people might have been a little distracted.”

Steve’s throat tightened as he suddenly found the print on his hospital gown fascinating.  Demon.  There was no running away from that word, that _concept_.  Was it really that surprising that of all the things Hydra would have been experimenting with that it was something truly infernal?  

Bucky had been so frightened when he’d last seen him during the war, and this was every worst fear realized.  

But how could someone _become_ a demon?  Bucky was the best guy that Steve had ever known; no matter what trouble he had found himself in, Bucky was there.  He was reliable, loyal, made the right decisions even when they were difficult.  How could Hydra have turned him into _that_?  It just… it didn’t make sense.  Even during the war, when his _change_ had already begun, Steve had no doubt that it was still Bucky.  He was frightened, sure, but every bit the brave, _good_ person he’d known in Brooklyn.

Was he damned?  Was his soul even still there?  Had Steve made the wrong call when he had been there for him sexually?  No – no out of everything that had happened, despite the illegality (and the supposed immorality), being with Bucky had never felt _wrong_.  Besides, things had changed since then: Steve had been so _proud_ of his country to learn that the stance on homosexuality had come so far since he went into the ice.  

“Steve?” Sam pressed.

“I have to find him.”  Steve’s voice crystallized his conviction.  He would see for himself if it was still Bucky, and if so then he’d help him however he could.  He needed to.  _God_ , the possibility he wasn’t alone in this century? It was almost too much to hope for.  

“Oo-kay… Steve, I get it: he was your friend -”

“Sam – I loved him.”  Steve wasn’t expecting those words to spill out of his mouth - maybe it was thanks to whatever super-soldier dose of painkillers they had him on - but once they were free there was no taking them back.

Silence hung in the air for a long moment as Sam looked at him like he’d just grown a second head.  Finally, he shook his head.  “We’re gonna put a pin in that, okay?  Because we’re sure as hell talking about that.” Sam pointed an accusing finger at Steve.  “But look, the world is fucking weird: shapeshifters, illusions, holographic masks…   is it really too much of a stretch that this guy makes himself look like your dead…what?  boyfriend?  To catch you off guard?”

“It’s him, I’m sure of it.” Steve’s tone left no room for argument.  “I got through to him on the helicarrier.  He’s the one who caught me out of the sky, Sam.”  The more he talked, the more Steve was sure of it: Bucky was still in there somewhere.  

Sam’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.  “Yeah?  That’s funny, because last I saw of him he ripped my wing off and nearly grounded me permanently.” 

Steve shook his head, “Hydra must have done something to his head.  He didn’t remember who I was, but you should have seen him up there, Sam.  He was so confused,” Steve paused, searching for a word, “so _raw_.”

Sam folded his hands and sat up straighter.  “Ask yourself this question: would you be this determined to find him and help him if he had had a different face?”  Sam held up a hand, stifling the words on Steve’s lips, “And even if it _is_ him, you gotta prepare yourself that he isn’t the same guy anymore.”                                    

“But Sam, I- ”

Sam cut him off.  “No, promise me.  I hear you, I really do, but at least keep that possibility in mind when you move forward with this – because I may not have known you for long, Steve, but I think I’ve seen enough to know that I’m not gonna stop you.  So just do me a damn favor and play this smart.”

He let Sam’s words hang in the air for a solemn moment.  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Steve conceded begrudgingly. 

“Good.  Because I’m coming with you.” 

“You’ve already done more than enough,” Steve protested.

“If you think that I’m gonna let Captain America run off and get his ass into trouble when I had the chance to watch his six? – naw, when do we start?”

Steve shook his head, but the smile that crept across his face was deeply genuine.  “Depends on how fast I can convince the doctors to let me out of here.  But what about your work with the VA?”  
  
Sam sobered. “I’m not saying I’m going to stop doing that, but hey: the reason I could spot your look when you walked into the VA a mile away is because I’ve been there.  More than once.  That disillusionment?  Starting to question what you’re doing with your life; if you’re on the right path?  Ever since I got out – scratch that - before I even went in, I’ve been looking for mine.  The VA has been good for me, but lately it’s felt like I’ve just been spinning my wheels.  What we did today made a real difference, so count me in.”

“I can’t promise it’s always going to be like it was today,” Steve admitted.  “Actually, I’m not sure what things are going to be like at all now that I’ve broken it off with SHIELD in a permanent way.  Guess I’m technically out of a job.”

That coaxed a laugh out of Sam.  “Man, if every day were like it was today then – no offense – but I might have to rethink my offer or else this hospital here would be my new home.” 

“Speaking of homes, I’m probably going to have to find a new place to live.”  Steve leaned his head back against the pillow with a sigh. 

“Yeah?  You thinking somewhere else in D.C.?”

“I’m not sure.  I don’t want to leave if Bucky might still be in the area, but I can’t shake the idea that maybe he might find his way back to New York.” Steve sighed with a wincing smile, “Or maybe I’m just feeling nostalgic myself.”

“Home is home,” Sam shrugged, then worked his jaw for a moment.  “You know, I’m from New York originally.”

“No kidding?  Knew there was something I liked about you.”  
  
“Yeah, I grew up in Harlem.  It’s been… too long since I’ve been back.  Hell, maybe this is some kind of sign if I believed in that kind of thing.”  Sam picked at some dirt under one of his nails. 

“What kind of thing _do_ you believe in?”  Steve knew it was an unfair question the moment he asked it. He’d barely known Sam for three days, but combat made fast friends and he’d felt immediately closer to Sam than anyone else he’d met since waking up in the future.  It was hard not to think of the brotherhood he had with the Howling Commandos when he talked with Sam.  

Sam gave a bitter laugh. “Good question.  Once upon a time?  I had faith, but I lost that a long time ago.  Maybe it’s because my dad was a minister.” Sam turned his phone over in his hand, looking at his reflection in the dark glass.  “Then it was the military.  I was – well, I thought I was doing good work out there.  But wars have gotten a lot less black and white since your time, Cap.  I saw some things out there, people on our side doing some uncomfortable shit.  But I trusted Riley – me and him had each others’ backs, and that meant something.  After he – well,” Sam wet his lips with a flicker of a grimace crossing his face, “after I lost him, I had no other reason to still be out there.  I thought I could just get out, but I don’t think I realized how much I was leaving behind, either.  You know, I still dreamt every night about being in the air?  Civilian life hasn’t really suited me so well anymore.”

“I hear that,” Steve echoed, another reason why he and Sam had clicked so quickly.  “And I’m sorry about Riley.  I know how hard that must have been.” 

Sam nodded, looking back down at the book he had been reading before Steve woke up.  “I can’t say if I had some reason to think that he were still out there somewhere, I wouldn’t go to some crazy lengths to find him, too.” Sam conceded.

Nearly the entire track of _Deep-In-It_ played before Sam spoke up again, “Can I ask you a question, Steve?”  
  
“Of course.”  Sam could have asked for just about anything and Steve would have gladly given it.   
  
“If you and Barnes were together, why did you never say anything?”

Steve let out a long puff of air, feeling the warm tingle of another dose of painkillers drip through his IV.  “You know, except for Peggy, you’re the first person I’ve told.” Steve clenched his jaw, turning the past over in his mind.  “I think some of the Howlies might have known, Morita especially… but if so, they never said anything.  During the war, it was dangerous; we could have been discharged if the wrong people found out.  Even Bucky was trying to push me to get with Peggy instead; I think he thought he was looking out for me.  Plus, Bucky was dealing with, well, I guess I know what he was dealing with now.”  

Steve had to take a moment, the memories washing over him of how terrified Bucky was of the change he was going through, that need that had been infused into him.  It had been what started their relationship, but Steve still nursed a guilt over how he had handled himself the first night – under the influence or not.  Bucky never seemed to blame him, but still.  

“Wait, so he was like this during the war?”  Sam sat back, “I sure as hell never read about that in any of the history books.”

“It wasn’t like it is now – not nearly this bad.  After Zola’s ritual he – he grew a tail.”  God, it sounded so strange saying it out loud, and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to talk about the _other_ aspect of Bucky’s budding condition.  It was too personal, like revealing a secret that wasn’t his to share.  “But we didn’t know what was happening.  We were trying to figure it out; we targeted Hydra compounds we thought Zola might have been continuing his experiments at, but before we learned anything, he fell…”  Steve trailed off, swallowing down a knot in his throat.  

_He didn’t die.  He fell, but he’s still here.  It’s not too late to save him… I hope.  Does he remember anything?  How much did Hydra take from him?  Why didn’t I go back to look for him?!_

“What about after the war?” Sam prompted, pulling Steve out of the chasm that threatened to swallow him. 

“You know, I didn’t have a word for what I was back then.  I liked women, sure, but Bucky… Bucky was always something special.  I loved him long before I was ready to face what that _meant_.  Now, with the internet and all, I think the word is bisexual.  There’s this whole vocabulary of sexuality that never existed, or at least I didn’t know about.  Demisexual too, maybe?  I… it’s a little confusing, I have to admit, and I haven’t really talked to anyone about it.”  
  
Sam nodded, “But why not?  You probably could do a lot of good for people out there still struggling with their own sexuality.”

“It’s not like I hadn’t thought about it.” Steve sighed.  “And I’ve been very supportive of LGBT causes, but I don’t like making a spectacle of my personal life, especially when I didn’t exactly _have_ a personal life.”  Exasperation crept into Steve’s voice.  The idea of dating was just another complication he really hadn’t needed on top of everything else. “Natasha had been trying to encourage me to start dating – but it just didn’t seem important.  Not only was I just not ready to move on yet, but I couldn’t bring it up without talking about Bucky and I… It might have been seventy years to the rest of the world, but to me he had _just died_ when I woke up.”

“Natasha’s a smart cookie; she probably noticed how lonely you were.”  Sam offered Steve a half-joking smile.  “Though she probably would have tried to set you up with some more guys if she’d known.”

Steve winced. “Probably.  There would have been double the pestering, if that’s even possible.”  Now really wasn’t the time to bring up that Steve had started to think about the possibility of opening that door after he’d met Sam.  

Sam gave Steve’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.  “For now, get some rest.  We’ll talk about apartment and demon-hunting in New York after the doctors say you’re ready for release.”

“I’m fine-” Steve started to sit up from where he had apparently sagged against the pillows. 

“Nuh-uh.  The world ain’t going to burn down in the next twenty-four hours.  You: Rest.  Eat some of this shitty hospital food.  I’ll get some balls rolling on my end and then we’ll go get some real food when you get outta here.  I’m betting ‘Oohh’s & Aahh’s’ never made it onto that list of yours, white boy, and that’s a damn travesty.  I’m taking you there before we leave D.C. because if you haven’t had their chicken and waffles, then you haven’t lived.”

Steve put up his hands.  “All right, all right; I’m resting.  Look at me resting.”  

SHIELD had collapsed, most of his team members had turned out to be Hydra, he hadn’t seen most of the other “Heroes of New York” since immediately after the battle, and who knew if Natasha was going to stick around.  But he’d found more than an ally with Sam – he’d found a friend.  Suddenly, he felt a hell of a lot less alone moving forward.  And with the chance that Bucky just might come back into his life?  As Steve settled back against the pillow, feeling sapped from the conversation, the drugs, and the regeneration, the first genuinely optimistic smile he’d had in over seventy years spread across his face. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STUNNING piece of artwork as a "cover illustration" for the series at the end of the fic + being added to the series page.  
> It is mildly NSFW (nude men, but no genitals showing)

Rummaging around in his mind was like reaching into a dark larder set with mousetraps.  Sometimes he unearthed a visage of a sunny beach with cool water lapping at his toes and a background track of indistinct laughter.  Sometimes it was a plea cut short by a spray of hot blood across his face.  For days, he obsessively scrawled anything and everything that bubbled to the surface, both the good and the terrible.  It was mostly terrible.  He didn’t let that stop him.  

Very little disturbed the Soldier from his self-imposed mission.  When the cramping in his stomach hurt enough to draw him out of his thoughts, he ate.  When his mouth dried up and it became difficult to swallow, he drank.  When his bladder filled, he used the restroom.  Once, he woke without realizing he had nodded off.  He immediately set to furiously writing, trying to capture the fleeting images from his dreams.  

In the end, it was his hunger that drew him out.  Not a hunger for the rations; he still had enough of those to last him another week if he were frugal.  The _other_ hunger.  The one that pulled his focus out of his obsessive search through his head and overpowered it with thoughts of sex, feeding, the ache between his legs, and the phantom scent of sweat and come.  

When he finally forced himself to close the nearly full ledger pad, his mind was more of a jumble than when he began.  He was swimming in fragmented scenes, but had no idea how to begin to assemble them.  He had reached into a puzzle box and pulled out a handful of tiles with no idea what the finished image was supposed to be or even how many pieces were missing.  

And now he was distracted on top of that.  Fucking great.  

Sleep had helped jog loose some memories.  And maybe if he were to feed, he could feel more – well, not _human_ , but at least more coherent.  However, that was going to prove decidedly more complicated than seeing to his other basic needs. 

He had uncovered enough fetid memory excerpts to know that Hydra had seen to it that feeding had never been on his own terms.  When it wasn’t with his master or other Hydra agents, it was sometimes integrated into a mission where the target was a man who would be “vulnerable to his charms”.

_The fine suit he wore was as much a costume as the_ guise.  The mission objective had been clear: seduce and kill the diplomat Leonid Kuzmich.  The feeding was to be considered a reward, but the way the target’s clammy hands had clung possessively to him – he’s not my master! – when they were absconding to his room made it difficult for The Asset to maintain the seductive smile he had been instructed to use.   
  
A full body shudder dismissed the vision that had come over him like a wave of nausea.  Reward his ass.  

Still, how was he supposed to find an appropriate target himself?  He had use of his pheromones, but his stomach clenched at the idea of using them on someone who would not normally be receptive to a man’s advances.  That could be as damaging as any other weapon when the effects wore off.  

_Hazel eyes wide with disgust and betrayal_ \- _“What did you do to me?!”_  His mind immediately recoiled from this memory like a vampire from a crucifix, and the Soldier fell against a wall, heaving, having broken out into a cold sweat.  There were mousetraps in his mind, but apparently there were also landmines.  

He swallowed a thick, bitter knot.  Okay.  So he had to be careful, choosy when finding a target.  But how?  Target selection for his feeding had never been a part of his skill set.  

Right?  

As if in answer, a scene fragment bubbled to the surface, laying itself bare before him like an offering _: the smell of cigarette smoke, a hazy bar with the windows painted black.  Fast-paced music that made him want to dance if he hadn’t been so focused on his mission: scoping out a suitable target.  He wore his pheromones like cologne, just enough of a whiff to lower inhibitions around him.  Eyes lingering a little too long on him rather than the dancing girls would give him an indication of a receptive partner._   

He had been _choosing_ his mark.  That… didn’t seem to fit with the litany of facts that survived his wipes, but there was something significant to this scene – like a clue in a mystery novel.  He tucked the memory into a spare margin in the ledger to revisit later.   But for now, it was the missing tool in his toolkit he needed.  

His cock gave an unhelpful twitch, a pressing reminder that he needed to stop wasting time before things got _bad_.  

With a resigned sigh, he headed into the washroom. 

This time, he confronted the mirror he had previously avoided with a sense of purpose, pulling in his demonic features like sucking in his stomach.  The face that stared back at him had certainly seen better days, and looked askew from the traces that had sometimes filtered to the surface of his memories.  The tangled, greasy hair and several days worth of stubble weren’t helping, granted.  Add that to the traces of the black greasepaint still lingering in the circles under his eyes and he looked like a homeless person.  He _smelled_ like a homeless person.  When had he last been cleaned?  Certainly not since his last wipe.

_A flash of a high-pressure hose blasting him with cold water, red rivulets running down his naked flesh before being shoved, shivering, into the freezing cryo tank._

He shivered at the frigid memory.  Well.  At the very least, he could do better than that.  

Discolored water spurted out of the faucet with a rattle and a groan, but a thin layer of liquid soap still remained in the old dispenser.   
  
He could do this: pretend to be human, pretend to fit in.  He’d done undercover missions before.  

Stripping out of the clothes he had pilfered, he set to doing the best he could with what he had. He scrubbed his face by hand with a bit of the soap, then wet and lathered up some of the paper towels to give himself a once-over before cleaning the rankest areas: his armpits, groin and ass.  He washed his hair with more of the liquid soap, detangling the long hair as best he could with his fingers and claws.  

After a moment’s consideration, he attacked his left arm with soap and paper towel as well.  Even if he kept it covered for this foray out, he didn’t want to risk some stink lingering.  But as he shifted and raised the plates to gain access to all the grooves, he revealed more and more caked dirt, semen and dried blood that had probably been wedged in there for decades that the techs never bothered to clean.  

_I need it out!  All of it!_   Something took hold of him.  His scrubbing bordered on manic before the paper towels ripped into shreds and he caught himself.  He forced himself to take a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and breathe through the mania.  

Finally calm, he attacked the stubble with his sharpest knife and the best lather he could work up with the old soap.  Between his steady hand and thick skin, it wasn’t as terrible of a combination as it probably should have been, and he was able to get his face pretty damn smooth.  

What he was left with… well, it wasn’t great, but it was still a damn sight better than he looked a few minutes ago. 

He dressed himself in the second set of clothes he’d rummaged: a simple button-down shirt and set of slacks that fit a little tighter than he had estimated.  Where had his mind been when he’d thought these would be a good fit?  They barely stretched over the bulk of his thighs.  Then again, maybe that could be useful for the mission at hand.  Added to that was a set of gloves and high-necked field jacket appropriate for the weather.  

He’d found a fedora in the thrift shop that had pulled at him like gravity.  Maybe the selection had felt indulgent at the time, but the idea of going out without a hat had felt off for more than just the reason that he needed to disguise himself.  Besides, the pinches in the crown were effective at hiding the holes he had to regretfully punch into the top to fit over his horns.  Even guised, he had to accommodate for them; they were still _there_ whether or not he or anyone else could see them.  

But even with the holes, with the hat set on his head and tilted just a hint askew, he looked… _better_.  There was something almost familiar in the face that looked back at him.

*

He made sure to put some distance between his hideaway and his hunting grounds.  He hopped on a subway, kept his head down, and let it take him a few random stops before switching lines and doing the same thing over again.  He exited the car at the same stop as a large group of chatty, flashily dressed young men and women.

When he emerged back aboveground, it was well into evening and his appetite had sharpened to a pressing need; he followed his senses to where music, drunken laughter, and the scents of sweat and greasy food filled the air.  

From a strip of similarly obscurely-named establishments, he selected a dimly-lit bar reeking of alcohol and pounding music that backed up against an alleyway full of blind curves and large dumpsters.  

The noise was overpowering to his keen hearing when he walked in, but he skirted the bustling dance floor – _it pulled at him, though, the effortless movement of bodies to a rhythm and the taste of euphoria on the air_ – and made his way out of the thickest cloud of sound over to the bar.    

He ordered a drink because that is what people did, even though it would not affect him.  The taste of it on his lips and tongue, though \- the smoky burn of the whisky he had ordered like a habit he’d forgotten -  transported him to a hazy moment where the music was sung by patrons around a piano and one glass, two, three wasn’t enough.  He’d done this before – or, at least, the previous occupant of this body had.  

As he nursed his drink and watched the undulating bodies on the dance floor, he deliberately let his mind wander to the thoughts of rolling hips, gasping moans and a hard cock between his lips.  Unleashing his pheromones was a double-edged sword.  It affected the men around him, but without his filtration mask it also affected him, and it could be damn difficult to wrest control of his thoughts away from his dick if he needed to.  

A few of the other men in his vicinity grew flushed and glassy-eyed, but kept their focus outwards towards the floor or at a woman a few seats down with a top barely larger than a postage stamp leaning halfway across the bar.  

“Really, a fedora?  Tell me you’re not one of _those_ guys.” A twenty-something male with a mane of curly hair, thick glasses, and mahogany skin slid into the vacant seat next to him.

Half of him wanted to pounce him then and there.  The other half indignantly wondered what the hell was _that_ was supposed to mean.  What was wrong with his fedora?  He actually kind of liked it.  

“No accounting for taste,” he grumbled back, raising his eyebrow challengingly as he took another sip of his drink.  

“Apparently not,” Glasses chuckled with a shake of his head and bemused judgment in his eyes.  “I’m Edison.  Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”  His voice had picked up a husky note; his cocky bravado rapidly segueing into seat-squirming.  He had his mark, and a small part of him _thrilled_ at the idea he was choosing who to sleep with, even if it were more fishing than hunting.  The guy - Edison - was attractive and, most importantly, wasn’t Hydra.  

He nodded, but the words died on his lips and a brief surge of panic flitted through him: there was no cover identity crafted for him for this mission.  But he did have a name or, well, this body did once.  Bucky: but no, that was too distinctive and felt like too much to bear for now.  But James was common enough.  “ _James is too common.  How many James and Jims and Jimmies do you know?  Fuck, half the Howlies are Jameses.  Call me Bucky.”_

He swallowed.  James then.  He could try it on, see how it fit.  “James.  Not from around here.”  He let his eyes pointedly rake up and down Edison.  “Not staying for too long, either.”  Finding the words to say felt like remembering the words to an old song: how to hint at what you wanted without saying it outright or doing something that could get you decked or arrested.  The last thing he needed right now was to make a scene. 

Edison’s vivid amber eyes went dark as he scooted a little closer.  “Well, how about we make your short time here memorable, hmm?”

A wolfish grin drew across his face.  “Pal, you read my mind.”

They were out the back doors and into the empty alleyway in under five minutes.  

*

Feeding was old hat.  His sparse were memories riddled with experiences, and yet each time the heady, musky scent crawled into his nose and took him by the reins, it was a transcendent experience.  There was a growl in his throat as he dropped to his knees and worked open Edison’s fly.  

“You – you work fast!” came out in a breathy huff from Edison’s mouth, but his critique devolved into a “Fuuuuuuuuu-” when James’s hot lips wrapped around his dick.  

There should have been nothing impeding his memory of feeding considering he’d been fed since his last wipe.  Still, James could _never_ hold onto just how good it actually felt.  Memory just couldn’t contain it.  His eyes slid closed and he honed in on the pleasure already coursing through Edison like he were plugging into an outlet, and his body came alive.

A blissed-out moan slipped from his lips as his tongue explored the deliciously heavy cock in his mouth.  The precome already dribbling from the tip was ambrosia and James’s body shivered with the first tantalizing hints of pleasure to come.  His own cock pressed hard against his too-tight trousers, which should have felt constrictive but instead sent more waves of pleasure coursing through him.  

Every tinge of pleasure he coaxed out of Edison was reflected and amplified through James; he honed in on what locations and what sorts of ministrations sent the most endorphins flooding through the pair of them.  

 “Don’t stop!” Edison gasped, “God, you’re goo- oh God!” His body spasmed and twitched, and James could feel the pressure of a pending orgasm building behind a thinning wall of restraint.  And fuck if it felt good, but it would be nothing compared to the heady rush awaiting them.  Most men tried to hold off as long as they could, but James was here to feed and took no mercy on his partner’s attempts to drag this out.  

In a hurry, he worked open his own fly to free his pounding cock – another memory sliver of walking home in shame and squelching drawers muscled through the burning intensity of the feed.  

He barely got it out in time before the orgasm crashed over the pair of them like a tidal wave.  His brain caught fire, alive with fizzing ecstasy.  Instinctually, he wanted to latch onto this conduit, to drain everything Edison had to give him.  _It would feel so good, keep me going for a while!  It wouldn’t hurt him – probably be the best sex he’d ever had!_

James pulled back with a gasp.  No.  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt him, but it would knock him out – and even if the guy insulted his hat, then that was no reason to leave the poor kid unconscious in an alleyway.  

As James sat back on his heels, panting and still reeling with the tingling afterglow, Edison staggered back with a smile as wide as the Mississippi on his face.  “Wow… you – holy shit, you sure you don’t want to head back to my place-?”

“N-no, just… get the fuck out of here.” James snapped, maybe a little too sharply, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment.

Edison shrugged, and had barely zipped up his pants and turned to go when the memory assaulted him.   
_  
An alleyway, retreating footsteps and laughter carried to his ears as he shook with overstimulation and fear._

_It’s a tail – it’s a FUCKING TAIL!_

_He could feel it moving – no: he was moving it! –_ twitching, wriggling – STOP IT! – strange muscles bunching and coiling and responding to his own goddamn panic!   Make it stop, make it stop!  I don’t want this!  What the fuck is happening to me?!  
  
This was some kinda fucking punishment for his depravity.

_The fact its punctuated bursts of growth were accompanied by kicks of arousal straight to his cock made him dizzy with self-hatred and nausea._

_He had to get back to the inn.  He couldn’t let anyone_ see – God, if the Howlies, if Steve knew – no, no he’d… he’d do something!  
  
James came to, retching.  

He’d held his guise under torture and through orgasms, but he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep the ripple of spines down his back from breaking his illusion.  He’d never recovered a memory chunk that complete, that immersive.  He hadn’t just remembered it, he’d relived it; been subsumed by the panic of… fuck only knew how long ago.  He’d hoped that feeding might help fuel the memory recovery process, but – he shuddered – he hadn’t been prepared for this; the shame still clinging to him like sticky cobwebs.  

As much as he didn’t want to think any more about the memory that had left him feeling fetid and broken, there was information there – valuable information.  If… he remembered growing a tail, and in the middle of a goddamn alleyway, then that meant Hydra hadn’t just forced him into a human body.  He had… _become_ this.  Gradually. 

His stomach tied into a knot. He really had been human once; a goddamn _person!_  James Buchanan Barnes, and he had _friends_ – friends who didn’t know and he was scared would find out about what was happening with him.  _He_ had been terrified about what was happening to him: he could still feel the cold sweat as a damp sheen on his face and down his back. 

Oh God, he hadn’t wanted this, any of this: to be queer, to be a demon, to be found out.  It was a dirty, shameful secret that he’d fought to keep hidden.  Shame: he’d forgotten – how had he forgotten?  He hadn’t even thought twice about going out to feed tonight, hadn’t given a damn about himself – because he wasn’t a person, but the cruel joke was that he had been.  Once.  Before Hydra had STOLEN it from him.  The wipes had nothing to do with maintaining his hold on a corporeal form, they were just designed to keep him in the dark, complacent, and subservient.  Those fuckers.  Those FUCKERS-

A sudden crack wrenched his attention downwards – he’d pressed too hard into the concrete; his steely claws had torn through the tips of the gloves and formed five spiderwebbed divots in the pavement.  Fucking amateur – he had more control that that!  With a stifled whimper, he rocked back into a seat on the ground and tugged his hand through his hair. 

He had to get out of here.  

He tucked his left hand under his other arm and staggered back to his feet, heading off in a different direction than he had arrived in order to take a circuitous route back to the safehouse.  

He hadn’t gone more than four blocks when he stopped dead in his tracks.  There, larger than life was Steve: his face slapped across a poster set into the wall of a bus stop. 

  
 CAPTAIN AMERICA: The Exhibit  
The Living Legend & Symbol of Courage  
Now appearing for a limited time at the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sam-centric interem story takes place between this chapter and the next chapter (listed as the 4th fic in this series), ["Gotta Have Faith"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13899204)
> 
>   
>  This absolutely BREATHTAKING illustration for the "Falling's Just Another Way to Fly" series as a whole by the immensely talented [superhumandisasters](https://superhumandisasters.tumblr.com/)  
>  I cannot say enough about this stunning piece - it absolutely stole my breath and has so much gorgeous intricately rendered details - all from scenes from the fic (or planned scenes ;)   
>  Please check it out/[reblog it on tumblr](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/171066948043/neutralchaos1-superhumandisasters-an) \- including more of my fangirl squeeing and details about hte language of flowers in the piece.  
>  This image is also getting added to the series page as a "cover image" for the series itself. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up: there is a Sam-centric interlude/side story that takes place between the previous chapter and this chapter (listed as the 4th fic in this series), ["Gotta Have Faith"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13899204)

 

James went to the Smithsonian hoping to find some answers about his past.  Maybe, if he were lucky, there would be something there to provide him with at least a basic framework to begin assembling the puzzle pieces of memory into some kind of _order._ He hadn’t been prepared for _this_.  

As soon as he rounded the corner of the Captain America exhibit, he was immersed in history.  Everywhere he turned, another artifact of the past engulfed him, pulling at him like they had their own gravity. 

A squat, army-green Harley-Davidson Liberator equipped with leather saddlebags – _The spluttering gunning of an engine, the slick of_ grease on his hands.  “Dammit, Steve.  How many times I gotta tell ya – there ain’t a mechanic’s shop in fifty miles that has any spare parts for this thing.  I can try to patch the fuel line with what we got, but I swear to God – if you get it shot again, you’re going to have to leave this beauty in Nazi territory and that would be a crying-fucking-shame.”  
  
A panel of large monitors showed the Captain America that James had fought on the helicarriers, life-sized and dressed in a khaki Army private’s uniform.  Then the image on the screen transitioned to display Steve Rogers in the same uniform – but one that barely came to James’s chest – _His face screwed up in familiar defiance_.  “ _Bucky – BUCKY!  Come on.  There are men laying down their lives.  I got no right to do any less than them.”  His chest ached – not with anger but frustration and worry that he might lose something precious and there would be nothing he could do to stop it._

A display case containing a bicycle, a few old black and white photographs of – _Brooklyn: the smell of hot concrete, ripe garbage, car exhaust and a distant tinge of salt and cooking crawling up through the vents_ \-  the center of which had a cracked journal opened up to a series of portraits – _A blonde woman, circles under her eyes but a smile full of contagious warmth.  The smell of cooking pancakes that made his stomach rumble and mouth water.  Childhood.  Cozy mornings after a night spent sleeping over at his best friend’s place-_

Another memory muscled to the front - _He shouldn’t be snooping, but the journal was right there and open.  Practically an invitation.  He would have known Steve’s art style anywhere, and even with that new body of his and those ridiculous hands, it hadn’t changed a lick, and that was comforting somehow.  The faces of a woman – Peggy Carter – filled the open pages, each one lovingly rendered with a different glimpse into her multifaceted personality.  It was plain as day in the strokes of his pencil how Steve felt about her – and he rightly should.  She was a good match for him, and you didn’t find a dame like that every lifetime.  So why did the drawings twist his lips into a frown and leave a bitter taste in his mouth?  The epiphany struck him a moment later; he finally recognized the ugly squirming thoughts for what they really were: jealousy._

His fingers fluttered to a chest pocket, patting for something that wasn’t there: cigarettes.  Fuck, he wanted a cigarette!  James ignored the concerned glances from the sparse midday crowd as he staggered around the corner, and found himself swallowed up by the massive centerpiece of the exhibit: a set of seven uniforms posed before a mural of larger-than-life portraits of – _The Howling Commandos; huddled together and passing around a precious unbroken bottle of gin that Monty had managed to scavenge out of the bombed-out bar from the edge of Darmstadt.  They were too far behind enemy lines to set a fire, and it was fucking cold, but the pleasant burn of alcohol down his throat at least provided a distraction – even if this bottle seemed to be just as watered down as the taverns in London.  Gabe’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he passed it his way – “Thanks, Bucky.  Good work out there, today.  I don’t know how the hell you spotted that lookout hidden up in that damn tree, so this drink’s to you!”_

Overwhelmed, James turned away, his jaw clenched and mouth watering in nausea – only to be confronted by his own face.  Printed on a piece of glass taller than he was, James found himself literally caught in the shadow of James Buchanan Barnes.  His eyes devoured the words on the – Christ, it was a memorial.  To the world, Bucky Barnes had died the day he’d fallen from a train saving the life of Steve Rogers. 

_Freezing winds, his stomach in his mouth as he fell screaming down – down_ \- James fell back a few paces, his breath quickening as he pushed the fedora lower on his brow and tried to collect himself despite the vertigo rushing around him.  

_Focus_.  His early life and the information he had craved was all laid out here like an encyclopedia entry: 

Son.

Brother to three.  

Best friend.  

Athlete.

Student.

Sergeant. 

Prisoner of war. 

Howling Commando. 

War hero.

He was a _person_ , he had had a childhood!  There were people who had mourned him.  He had been someone worth remembering, worth erecting a memorial in the goddamn Smithsonian.  He had been a _good man_.  

And Hydra had _stolen_ that from him.  Corrupted it.  

Anger coiled in his belly like a living thing: a snake dripping poison.  James’s eyes fixed on the date of his supposed death: 1945.  Seventy years.  _Seventy fucking years_ Hydra had had him, fed him lies and twisted him into this – this _monster_ to do their bidding.  

Hydra had systematically burned away every trace of the man he had once been; took his memories from him again and again every time he started to scrabble out of his pit of obliviousness.  They had told him it was fucking _maintenance_ and that the pain was necessary to keep him anchored to this realm, when the truth was that he had been _remembering._   How much of the basic information that he was operating on was false?  They had made him think he was nothing more than some evil spirit or ether summoned into a body, made him believe that he was doing good work for humanity when he was – _oh God, how much evil have I sown in their name?!_

James tasted bile.  

His hands were quivering.  The room was spinning.  People were starting to stare!  No!  He couldn’t lose it here; too many people.  _Too many thoughts in my fucking head!_   Don’t slip, don’t drop the guise – _It is forbidden to drop the guise on mission._   They’d see – _see me for the monster I am.  Scream.  Run._ He spotted a dark room and ducked inside what turned out to be a tiny theater mercifully devoid of other people.  A countdown in white text: “next showing in 13:09” was the only thing displayed on the screen.  He slipped into a seat in the back near the door and wrapped his arms around himself.  

_His hands were bound above his head in glyphed manacles, his body naked and quivering in the aftershock of the pain word.  Three hours – three hours they needed him to maintain the guise through whatever they did to him.  He couldn’t do this – torture disguised as training – Keep up the guise through the pain and through the pleasure or the timer would start over.  Don’t drop it – hold it in!_

James gasped, surfacing from the flashback like a cold, deep lake.  Surely, he only must have checked out for a moment, but the numbers on the screen had fallen to 10:08.  

His head hurt, the jagged memories violently wedging into the scaffolding of a timeline the Smithsonian information had given him.  _This is what I wanted, isn’t it?_   Yawning gaps of missing time stretched between the moments he could remember, but he was starting to make out a basic outline of a life he once hand, and the horror show it had become after Hydra had taken him back in 1945.  The series of masters, each one crueler than the last.  Torture, experiments and the atrocities that they’d forced him to commit.  

_Focus!  Focus on something better.  Focus on… Steve_ – his heart ached like a part of it was missing.  He had been someone to Steve, who was still out there.  Maybe Steve was his master, but surely it couldn’t have always been that way.  The plaque said they were best friends, loyal to each other “from schoolyard to battlefield.”  Steve had apparently even rescued him from Hydra once before, but what had happened?  How had he become a demon?  Did Steve know?  What were he and Steve to each other?  Friends?  Lovers?  Had he been his master during the war?  How had they met?  The Smithsonian had opened up a treasure trove of information and answers, but also burdened him with so many more questions.  And, James – _No dammit, I’m_ _Bucky_! – realized, he wanted answers.  He wanted his memories back – fuck he wanted _himself_ back.  He didn’t want to be this _thing_ he’d been reduced to!

The realization hit him like clouds parting: he wanted to see Steve.  

He closed his eyes, sought out the invisible thread that connected them, and found it as easily as a punch to the chest.  The connection was strong: a pull to the North East – much further than last time he’d reached for Steve, but still less than a night’s flight.  There was nothing stopping him.  No standing orders to hold him back, no Hydra STRIKE team to reel him back in.  He could leave right now if he wanted to.  

He could do whatever the fuck he wanted. 

The concept was both terrifying and exhilarating.  The thought of taking the risk, no matter how small, that he could be used again – by _anyone_ – was almost enough to send him running back to his safe house.  But something deep, something _old_ , smoothed his hackles with a nebulous sense of trust.  It was such a different flavor from every association with his masters from Hydra, which were tinged with only fear and subservience, that it was almost foreign.  

A weight bore down on Bucky’s shoulders.  Would Steve even _want_ to see him after what he’d done?  He’d nearly killed him: shot him, stabbed him, beaten him till his face was swollen and purple.  Did Steve even know that he’d caught him before he hit the water?  Did it even matter?  He was a demon, not this great man that the Smithsonian painted on a mural.  Not anymore.  He’d done _so many terrible things_.  Even if it had been under Hydra’s orders with his mind scrambled, he had still done them.  

But… with Pierce finally fucking dead, at least Bucky would no longer pose a threat to Steve.  He couldn’t be made to attack him again; hell he probably couldn’t even hurt him if he wanted to anymore, unless Steve himself ordered him to do so.  So if Steve didn’t want to see him, or if Steve saw him and attacked?  Well, then maybe that would be what he deserved.  

With less than a minute left on the screen, and a few people starting to filter into the small theater, Bucky took his leave and headed towards the exit.  His decision gave both weight and purpose to his stride.  If there was any chance at unlocking the old Bucky Barnes, then Steve was the key.  Maybe he could do this on his own, eventually, but Bucky wasn’t sure what memories he could trust, what documents were truth or altered through the tinted lens of history.  If even the Smithsonian made no mention of his transformation, of the nature of his relationship with Steve, queer hookups or  occult rituals, then Bucky doubted he’d have better luck with history books or even digital sources. 

And, if he were being honest with himself, despite the fact he could barely remember Steve, Bucky _missed_ him.  He was ready to stop running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [Tisfan](https://tisfan.tumblr.com/) for this adorable set of "Felties" of Steve & Demon Bucky!  
>   
> 
> [ Check it out/reblog it on Tumblr here ](https://tisfan.tumblr.com/post/171799430814/just-sent-these-little-guys-out-along-with-caps)\- and find out more about her adorable felties!


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky’s scattered recollections were full of yearnings to be allowed to fly for longer than a few minutes at a time.  

Until his last series of missions, his nature and very existence were kept as a closely-guarded Hydra secret.  Mission protocol had frequently prohibited dropping his guise unless the primary objective would otherwise be compromised.  The cramping discomfort that came from remaining awake and holding his guise for days on end was bad enough, and led to wishing he could just stretch his wings out even for a moment.  Missions that actually allowed for flight were even rarer; a risk that his handlers were seldom willing to allow.  

Granted, he had been instructed with basic parameters to reduce the chance of being spotted: fly only at night, hug uneven terrain, and cloud cover was his ally if he had to fly in populated areas.  Fortunately, even most modern radar was ill-equipped to detect organic material: skin and clothing tended to absorb, not reflect radar.  

It was a perfect night for flying: a new moon, heavy cloud cover, and though the May night air was brisk, it was nothing compared to the bone-searing chill of the Siberian countryside.  He made certain to avoid the lights of roads and towns, but despite the pitch-black night sky, Bucky had no problem navigating.  Even if the invisible thread connecting him to his master – to _Steve –_ hadn’t gave him a direct path to follow, his preternatural vision cut through the darkness like a searchlight.  Clear-cut farmland interspersed with strips of remnant forests splayed out in a patchwork beneath his wings.

Being free from the constrictive orders that had previously grounded him _should_ have been nothing shy of exhilarating.  And yet, having to spend the entire time in his demon-form was almost enough to sour even the thrill of flight _._   Every twitch of his tail as he course-adjusted, every shifting of the plates in his arm was a reminder of the humanity that had been stolen from him.  He could fly away from D.C and where Hydra had kept him in storage, but he couldn’t escape from himself or the mounting self-loathing.  With only the rush of air in his ears for company, his thoughts had free reign to spiral to dark places whose doors now had been thrown wide.  

> _He came for her under the cover of darkness, as the missions specified._
> 
> _He anticipated the security detail that roamed the halls; it was a simple manner to elude them, keeping to the depths of shadow and high arches when they passed.  He never made a sound, and luckily for the guards, they never noticed him.  
>    
>  He slipped into her bedchambers silent as a disease.  The intricate oriental rug muffled his combat boots as he sidled up to the massive four-poster bed draped in silks as fine as gossamer spiderwebs.  The lavish display of wealth that the proprietress had on display brought him no surprise; Hydra had a way of spinning corruption into fortune.  It’s why they had sent him, after all.  Sometimes, other members of the organization forgot their place and their loyalties.  Sometimes, their superiors rewarded them with a final secret: a personal glimpse of Hydra’s rumored boogeyman._
> 
> _Master Karpov (no, not Master. He did not like it when he called him that, but the compulsion to think of him as such was an ancient thing) had instructed him to reveal his true form to her before she died- <“You shall be her angel of death,”> he had chuckled, as if it were a joke.  _
> 
> _The Asset cast off his guise as he brushed aside the canopy, stretching his wings with a brief note of relief for his cramping muscles._
> 
> _Eva Filatova would have been a handsome woman in her youth.  Even fast asleep in a thin nightdress, hair more gray than brown wound tightly into curls, she seemed confident._
> 
> _The confidence fled the moment she woke.  Her eyes flared wide, pupils contracting to points.  She opened her mouth to scream but the sound caught in her throat; only a strangled, tinny gasp managed to eke out._
> 
> _Her fear cut him deeper than a knife to the gut.  By all accounts, the mission should have been a cakewalk; his presence only required for the message it sent to the Hydra traitor before her death.  But her abject terror at merely seeing him for what he was stalled his hand for the moment it took her to find a quavering voice._
> 
> _< “Sooner or later, I knew you would come for me,”> she whispered.  <“I tried to make up for the sins I committed in Hydra’s name, but I think I knew it would never be enough.”>  It would not have taken his acute ears to hear her heart hammering against her thin chest as she stared at him, transfixed in horror yet emboldened by the knowledge that this was her last moment.  <“Take me, demon.  I know I deserve hell.”>_
> 
> _Karpov’s orders rang in his ears. <“Make it messy, lest those others in Hydra forget that betrayal is the greatest transgression.  Do not let others see you, but they will know your handiwork, and the stories of your existence will grow and fester in their minds.”>_
> 
> _Following his master’s orders brought him no pleasure, but it was not a weapon’s place to question.  Her throat tore like parchment paper to his claws._
> 
> _He was out the window before her screams reached the ears of her security team.  At least he had been able to spare their lives._

Ultimately, it was the lights of New York City that dispelled the darkness from Bucky’s mind.  He had a direction and an approximate distance when he had taken off from the outskirts of D.C., but he hadn’t really known where he was going.  It hadn’t mattered; he was going to find Steve.  He wasn’t prepared for the visceral reaction to seeing that skyline rise above the horizon.  According to the Smithsonian, it had been more than seventy years since he’d last seen this city.  More buildings cluttered the silhouette of the city, the multicolored glow of the lights had changed, and even the scents wafting up from the streets were different from his flittery pieces of memory.  Yet something deeply familiar panged in his chest as he drew closer.  As much as time had transformed it, New York City was still home.   
  
The nostalgic feeling only intensified as he skimmed the East River, closing in on the now-insistent pull.  New York City bustled with activity and ambient lights despite still being the small hours of the morning.  Thankfully, the darkness of the water cloaked his arrival.  He allowed himself the small frivolity of letting the clawtips of his wings brush the water’s surface as a strikingly familiar shape loomed ahead: the Brooklyn Bridge.  The familiarity of it struck him like a blow, and surely, the droplets that collected on his cheeks were merely from droplets splashed up from the bay.    

He wouldn’t even need to foray into the network of city streets it seemed, as his target – no – his _destination_ – swam into view before he anticipated.  

Bucky wasn’t sure if he were proud of Steve or frustrated by him when he finally closed the distance enough to pinpoint his location.  From the outside, the building still resembled the blocky warehouse it must have been in a previous life.  Brown bricks framed a grid of square windows that faced out towards the waterfront.  The pull originated from a top-story corner condo; the location had been well chosen.  Good sight lines would not only give occupants a view of the bay and the bridge, but also make setting up surveillance difficult.  Difficult, at least, for someone other than him.  Bucky swooped in for a landing among the clustered struts and latticed girders along the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge itself.  

Bucky hooked his backpack onto one of the massive bolts and settled in to watch.  The latticework of the bridge haunches gave him plenty of obstruction to hide among and still get a good view of the corner apartment, but meant that staying unguised was probably the safer bet, letting his wings and tail grip onto the support structures.  

He had to wonder: was Steve was being cautious in choosing a strategic location in anticipation of a potential attack, or was he trying to make Bucky feel safer about the possibility of entering (and staying in) a well-defended home?  

It was hard to allow himself enough optimism to believe the second, but then again, for as well positioned as the apartment was, Rogers had left the damn curtains open.  
  
Maybe he just fucking liked the view. 

*  
He gave himself nearly a full two days of surveillance.  

Two days of catching glimpses of Steve.  Two days of fighting an inexplicable urge to just walk up to him directly every time he spied him.  

He didn’t seem to be particularly on alert.  He opened the door to a food delivery person without so much as giving the guy a second look.  He passed by the large windows while drinking from a mug, eyes lingering on the view rather than scrutinizing the streets below.  He even read or watched television with his back to the windows.  Bucky wanted to sock him.  Had he been there to kill him, he would have had at least a dozen good chances to do so.  

Twice, the man Bucky recognized from the fight in D.C. who had flown on false wings came by to stay for a few hours.  Bucky wished he’d had the opportunity to plant some kind of listening device in the apartment, but it would have been too risky before he understood Steve’s patterns better.  What were they doing?  Why were they both in New York?  Was Steve seeing this guy?  Something twisted in his gut at the thought, his tail wrapping tighter around the girders hard enough for the metal to groan.  

Precisely an hour and a half before dawn, he watched Steve trot out of the front of the building dressed in a shirt that was too fucking tight and a pair of windbreaker pants.  He was off at a jog by the time his feet hit the pavement.  Just like the morning before and the morning before that.  Assuming Steve kept to his (stupid and risky) schedule, he had at least another hour and a half before Steve would get back home.  

It was practically an invitation. 

*

He waited until the waterfront was clear of people.  Considering it was 4 in the morning, he didn’t have to wait long before he had his opening and zipped across to Steve’s building.   
  
Bucky was starting to really wonder about this guy when he discovered that the windows weren’t even locked.  

The moment his boots touched softly on wooden floors, Bucky cloaked himself in his guise with a shiver and took in the living room from his new vantage.  Sure, he’d been watching the place for two days, but standing in the middle of Steve’s _home_ immersed him in a portion of Steve’s life.  

He was the last person to make an accurate judgment, but it seemed like a nice place.  It was far from huge, especially compared to the estate that Master Pierce had been living in, or many of the targets whom he had been sent after in their homes.  Exposed wooden beams in the ceiling and a brick wall that may very well have been original to the warehouse gave the place a less polished look that Bucky found he appreciated.  

The main room of the apartment served as a living room with a small kitchen off to the side.  Basic furniture: a couch, a television, a small table and standard appliances appeared impersonal enough that they may have come with the condo.  All of them were in perfect condition, but constructed of artificial materials with clean, simple lines.  Cardboard boxes sat in piles in the corner near the front door, labeled with hastily-scrawled labels like ‘kitchen’ or ‘bedroom’.  A few framed art prints of motorcycles sat along the baseboards underneath spots on the wall where they would presumably hang.  Steve had been living here for at least three days, but Bucky hadn’t seen any signs of him unpacking.  

In fact, Steve appeared to have only unpacked a few personal affects in the main room.  Less than a half-dozen books sat lonely on a built-in shelving unit.  Bucky swallowed coarsely as he noted that one of them was a well-broken-in bible, and another, a book titled _Powers of Evil: A Biblical Study of Satan & Demons._  Steve, apparently, had had time to unpack _those_.   
  
A number of yellow-tabs stuck out from the pages of the latter, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to open the book to investigate further.  As it was, the winged demonic figure on the cover seemed to be mocking him, underlining the monstrous, clawed left hand he held it with.  He swallowed down his self-revulsion as he gently set the book back down on the shelf, turning away.   
  
And there, on a coffee table in front of the couch, sat a thin file folder labeled in Cyrillic that made Bucky’s blood run cold. 

It was open in his hands before he knew what he was doing.  As he skimmed the contents of the folder, he quickly realized that this folder represented the sum total of information that the KGB had collected on the Winter Soldier until its disbandment in 1991.  Accounts of a dozen or so assassinations on Russian soil tenuously attributed to him took up the bulk of the file; a few scrawled English translations lined the margins of the pages.   Going by the photographs of the scenes, he doubted he had been responsible for some of them:  one was far too haphazardly executed, another legitimately appeared accidental.  But, a photograph of a woman with her throat torn out, laying halfway off of her bed, plunged an icy dagger into his chest.  The entire side of the bedsheet was stained a deep crimson, and in his mind’s eye, the image came to life, her glassy eyes looking up at him, pleading with vocal cords that no longer worked.  He could feel the slippery blood under his claws, the way her skin tore away with just the slightest pressure…

He quickly turned the page, swallowing down the nausea swimming up the back of his throat.  

Paperclipped to one eyewitness report was a grainy black and white photograph he immediately recognized as himself, lining up a shot with a Barret M82A1M.   His facemask and arm were clearly visible in the still; he must have been careless to have been caught on film.  He wondered if Hydra had found out about this and punished him for such an oversight.  A few pages in, a still from a surveillance camera – just a blurry face in a crowd as people were rushing in the other direction -  was attached to a report of a bombing of an apartment building in 1989.  Another report, this one from 1967, struck home as his eyes skimmed over the blocky Cyrillic typeset describing an Israeli diplomat found dead in his hotel room bed with his pants around his ankles.  A security still showed the diplomat heading back to his room hours earlier with another man, whose face was never caught on camera. 

The only thing in the folder that hinted at his demonic nature was a still from a security camera that had captured a hazy shadow in the sky.  Knowing what to look for, he could make out his silhouette – the broad wings and the fine line of his tail - distorted by the grain of the film.  The notes on the photograph described the (presumed false) rumors of his nature, and speculation of a state-of-the-art flight suit.  

Bucky closed the file with a long exhale.  So, Steve was looking for him, or, at least gathering information on him.  There wasn’t much here for him to go off of, but it meant Steve must have friends who were well-connected.  

He abandoned the file where he had found it on the table and moved to examine the rest of the apartment.  

The thought nagged at him as he explored the adjoining rooms (two bedrooms, though only one showed any signs of habitation) that he probably should be planting listening devices.  Spending more time on surveillance to get an idea for the sorts of conversations Steve was having privately and phone calls he might be making would be the smarter thing to do.  Steve was obviously trying to gather information on him; but who was he in communication with and what were his intentions?  Hydra would have instructed him to be thorough, be safe, and not be seen until he was absolutely ready to be.

No.  Fuck Hydra.  He could and would do what he wanted to do.  Maybe he was being a little impatient, but the looming paranoia that Hydra might find him and move on him before he had the chance to confront Steve with his questions crystallized his determination to stay.  Besides, it might actually mean something that he _wanted_ to see Steve.  Bucky just really fucking hoped that it wasn’t the traces of old programming and standing orders left over from whenever he’d been bound to Steve.  

He had just stepped into what turned out to be the sole bathroom of the unit when he heard a distant approach of footsteps and a jangle of keys from the hallway.  

Bucky had to muscle past the instinct to go for the window before Steve made it inside.  This is what he was here for.  He had questions that only Steve could answer.  

He wanted this, he reminded himself.  He slid his eyes closed as he heard the front door open, forcing his breathing to even out before sizing himself up in the mirror.  

The man looking back had a couple days’ worth of stubble, tangled, windblown hair and a dubious expression.  He smelled like the East River and corroded steel with a heavy cologne of boat exhaust.  Plus, while wearing his dark tac suit had seemed like the logical choice at the time to accommodate for his wings and keep out of sight, now he worried that it made him look too much like the brainwashed assassin that had confronted Steve in D.C.  

He swallowed thickly.  Too late to change now. 

The casual shuffling suddenly went silent, and Bucky could sense the aura of battle-readiness that had overridden Steve’s nonchalant mannerisms.  “Who’s there?” the familiar voice had an edge of steel.  
  
Right.  Super-soldier.  Enhanced.  He had probably heard his gulp.  

If Bucky still believed that God was listening to him, he would have sent up a silent prayer.  Instead, he clutched his backpack to his chest and stepped out of the bathroom. 

Here went nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fantastic piece of artwork is by the lovely [deandraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/)!  
>  [ Reblog it on tumblr here! ](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/171076441628/deandraws-commission-demon-bucky-by-deangrayson)


	10. Chapter 10

There was someone in his apartment.

Steve’s jaw clenched as his sensitive hearing picked up labored breathing from his bathroom, but he kept his footfalls deliberately even as he made his way to the coat closet where he kept the shield.  He jangled his keys as he hung them on the keyholder, keeping his eyes fixed on the door in question as he rustled the coats in the closet to mask the sound of equipping the shield.

The moment it was in its rightful place on his arm, Steve dropped into a defensive stance, and called out a challenge in his Captain America voice.  “Who’s there?”

 If this was Natasha trying to prove a point, so help her, Steve was going to have some very strong words for her.  He was getting damn tired of these spy games.  

The door to his bathroom slid open, and the figure that slipped out knocked the wind from Steve.  It was Bucky.  Right here.  In his apartment. 

“I-I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Bucky murmured with a hint of a stammer in his rusty voice, shifting from foot to foot and hugging a backpack like a stuffed animal.  “I have questions, and I didn’t know where else to go.”  Everything about his posture radiated trepidation, as if he might bolt at the drop of a hat. 

Steve had desperately hoped he’d be able to track Bucky down, but Natasha had made it plain from day one that the Winter Soldier was a ghost, and if he didn’t want to be found, he would not be able to be found.  He’d hoped, oh _God_ he’d prayed that he’d be able to find Bucky before he was lost in the wind or – worse- Hydra found him again.  He’d never dared hope that Bucky would come to _him_.  

Long, dirty hair hung to his shoulders.  The shadowed hollows under his eyes made the full rings of white around his achingly familiar blue-grey irises stand out like saucers against the sallow skin of his face.  But there was no sign of the ominous horns or wings; only a glimpse of the segmented plates of his left arm visible from around the backpack.  
  
Bucky was still dressed in the tight-fitting strappy leather combat uniform; notes of gunpowder, exhaust and smoke clinging to him that sent Steve right back to the helicarriers.  Moreover, as Steve examined him, it was hard to deny that something looked _off_ about him.  More than the long hair, stubble, thicker build and armored, gunmetal arm, something jarred a discordant note that was difficult to put a finger on.  It reminded him of when he’d investigated how modern art and animation had progressed, and watched a movie supposedly based on a children’s classic about a train to the North Pole.  But while the way advances in technology had been integrated into art was fascinating, the people came across as unsettling despite it being difficult to identify what specifically was wrong with them.  Tony had called it the “uncanny valley” effect.  Bucky’s effect wasn’t nearly as blatant: like he was always catching Bucky at a strange angle where his face didn’t look quite right.  

A thousand thoughts in the voices of Sam and Natasha ran through his mind: the odds that Bucky had also miraculously survived into the present were astronomically small; it could be a trap, it could be a fake, it could be a clone….  Steve knew he ought to be leery, but the man that stood not twenty feet away wasn’t the ferocious demon he’d faced in battle, he was his _friend_.  Just like on the causeway, every ounce of fight melted out of Steve in an instant and his shield arm fell slack by his side.  

“It’s okay,” Steve said after the moment of shock passed, setting down his shield slowly and holding out his palms in a display of peace.   Every fiber of his heart wanted to rush over to him, wrap his arms around him and never let go, but the battle-hardened soldier knew better.  “Let’s talk,” he settled on, exhaling and letting his face crack into a sad, but grateful, smile.  
  
Bucky’s eyes darted between Steve and the front door and windows that he was blocking, shifting from foot to foot before finally nodding.  “Okay… yeah, good,” he said in a small voice as he gingerly sat down the backpack by the wall, never taking his eyes off of Steve as he moved.  “I – I _want_ to talk.” He emphasized after steadying himself with a deeper breath.   
  
Seeing the once confident and brash Bucky reduced to this frightened, beaten down creature was nearly as heartbreaking as seeing him forced into a war he didn’t want.  Steve wet his lips and looked around carefully for a moment before slowly stepping towards the couches in his modest living room.  “You want to sit?” he asked softly, motioning to the selection of seating.

The tactical gears shifted behind Bucky’s eyes as he analyzed the layout of the living room as if it were a Hydra base during the war.  Assessment seemingly complete, he gave a quick nod and selected the armchair situated off to the side of the seating area whose back was to a solid wall.  

Steve couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the now-exposed left arm: the intricate, overlapping plates shifted and moved as he took his seat.  If he hadn’t known better, it would have been difficult to determine if it was organic or advanced biotechnology: the rough edges of the plates gleamed silver on wear patterns along movement points and at the tips of ridges, standing out against the rest of the dark material like the edge of a modern combat knife.  Steve’s artist’s mind wondered if the whole arm would shine up with a buffing.  

Bucky must have caught him staring.  He wrapped his right arm self-consciously over his left, doing little to hide much of the armored arm, and inadvertently angling it so that Steve got a better look at the pentagram on the shoulder – it was plain to see now that the red coloration of the star was thanks to deep, angry scarring.  Steve’s fingers clenched into a fist, short nails digging into his palms.  If any of the Hydra bastards who did this to him were still alive- 

Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times in thought before finally bluntly opening with, “Did we really know each other as kids?”

Bucky’s question immediately derailed Steve’s anger.  He swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest, “Yeah, pal…you remember that?”  

Bucky’s face crushed into a scowl, “I went to the Smithsonian.”  

Just like that the bubble of hope that had built up in his chest burst.  “Oh,” Steve winced as he heard his own disappointment in his voice. “That’s good-” he covered, eyes darting to the kitchen.  “Can I get you something to drink?  Water?”  

It should have been a simple question, but Bucky opened and closed his mouth three times, worry creasing his face before he responded with “I could use some water.”  It sounded more like a question, like he was asking for permission, than an answer. 

Steve had scores of questions he wanted to ask.  As much as he didn’t want to consider what Hydra could have done to Bucky to make him unsure about his own childhood, he _couldn’t_ ignore the possibility of some other explanation: that this wasn’t really the Bucky he had known.  But regardless of who he was, Steve was willing to bet that this man needed his help.  He bit back on his questions for now; he needed to be here _for_ him, not scare him off with what might come across as an interrogation.  Instead, Steve nodded and walked into the kitchen, deliberately turning his back to Bucky for the first time and pointedly ignoring Sam’s insistent voice that he promised to play things smart.  

Bucky hadn’t moved when Steve returned to the living room with two bottles of water.  He offered one to Bucky as he sat on an adjacent couch.  “Thank you,” he exhaled, “for coming here.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Bucky took the water bottle from Steve.  “You were looking for me,” Bucky stated rather than asked; his eyes darted pointedly to the file folder on the coffee table.   

“Of course I was,” Steve said, feeling the tug of a disapproving frown as Bucky admitted to going through his stuff.  But he couldn’t be too surprised; he would have done the same.  “I was worried about you.  I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Bucky cocked his head with surprise-tinged suspicion.  “Why?  What do you want from me?”  

The accusatory tone to Bucky’s voice took Steve aback.  _Want_ from him?  Was the idea that someone might be concerned about him so foreign?  His eyes narrowed after a moment before he forced himself to redirect his frustration onto the lid of the water bottle.  “You’re my best friend,” he said softly as he twisted it open with an audible crack.  His eyes flicked back up to Bucky, “I thought you were dead.”

Bucky set his jaw.  Naked hope warred with cynicism across his face, before he finally unscrewed the lid of his own water bottle and took a tentative sip.  A thankful moan slipped unbidden from his throat and one sip quickly turned into three before he frugally pulled the bottle away and replaced the cap.  

“I’ve got plenty,” Steve said knowingly.  He had been in the field long enough to recognize that instinct.  Bucky looked so desperately haggard that Steve was eager to let him have whatever he needed.

The plastic wrapping around the bottle crinkled between Bucky’s hands as he squeezed it in indecision.  He searched Steve’s expression before reopening the bottle and draining half of it.  Then, his eyes slipped away and his brow furrowed as he fidgeted with his water bottle.  When he spoke up again, some of the coarseness had eased from his voice, mimicking just enough of the old timbre of the Bucky he remembered to send a chill down Steve’s spine.  “I remember… thinking you were the one who died.  I felt… so alone.  Frightened.”  He shook his head, flinching.

“The whole world thought I died,” Steve murmured.  “Even me.  I thought I was saving the world.”

“According to the museum, you _did_ save the world,” Bucky said with a conciliatory note.  “That was… after I fell.” He continued thoughtfully with a level of detachment that would have been better suited figuring out a math problem than recalling a traumatic memory. 

“You remember the fall?” Steve asked with a wince.  The moment he had realized Bucky must have survived it, _somehow_ , his heart and his stomach had spilled out onto the floor.  It didn’t feel much better now.  “Bucky, if I had any idea you survived...”

Bucky’s eyes left Steve’s, going to his hands as unease slowly overcame his schooled dispassion.  “The fall – it’s one of the first things that comes back to me,” he admitted, squirming in his seat and focusing on his breathing.  “I… I know I thought I was gonna die.  I remember thinking I was sure it was the end.  I don’t see how you could’a thought any different.  I …” His brows knitted, “I think I did it trying to save you.”  

Steve blinked back the stinging in his eyes.  “Yeah, you idiot,” he breathed out in a huffy laugh.  “Though I should have…” he shook his head and waved his hand, hearing the echoes of ‘allow Barnes the dignity of his choice’ in his ears.  

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” he said, locking their eyes.  “I truly am.”

Bucky hung on his look for a moment, expression softening.  Eventually it broke as his shoulders hunched up and the scowl was back.  “Then maybe you shouldn’ta gotten yourself killed so quick after.” A familiar snark cut through his voice, more exasperation than irritation. 

“It was the only way-” Steve started, but he knew how rehearsed the excuse sounded. He sighed, starting over.  He owed Bucky honesty.  “I wanted so badly to bury all of Hydra because off what they did to you.  I was willing to go down to do it.”  He scoffed.  “Turns out maybe I didn’t save the world after all.”

Bucky retreated further into the plush cushions of the couch, his right hand gripping the rough plating of his left arm like he wanted to rip it apart.  “I … I waited for you,” the words seemed as much a surprise to him as Steve.  “I kept hoping, day after day, week after week, that someone would figure out where I was and rescue me.” The words flowed quickly from Bucky like a dam had broken and he was desperate to get them out before they disappeared. “I counted the days in tally marks on the walls of my cell.  Every time I heard a crash or gunshots, I thought maybe it was you with the cavalry.  They kept me in the dark for _months_ about your ‘death’; I think they were stringing me along, extinguishing every hope I had one by one.”  Emotion strangled his voice, and he quickly wiped at his face, “I’m sorry – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Steve couldn’t hold it back; he clamped a hand over his mouth as he choked back a sob at Bucky’s confessions.  It all hit him: he had failed in nearly every possible way.  Hydra had survived and infiltrated his own damned home - SSR and SHIELD - like an insidious disease.  Bucky had survived, waiting for him to rescue him.  The Battle of New York still caused the death of hundreds of civilians - He covered his face and tried to compose himself.  _No, come on, Rogers – hold yourself together!  This is about him, not you!  He doesn’t owe you sympathy for your Goddamn failure!  You screwed up!_   

 “I’m sorry,” Steve heard Bucky splutter, terror lancing his words.  “I shouldn’t have said that.  Things come back sometimes when I don’t expect-” 

Steve jerked his head up in time to see Bucky get to his feet, looking like Steve had hit him.  

“I can go-” Bucky offered, drifting towards the window.  “I’m sorry – I promised I wouldn’t hurt you and I fucked up already, I-” 

“No, don’t!” Steve barked too sharply, his hand shooting out.  He caught himself just short of grabbing at Bucky’s arm, turning the aborted gesture into an earnest folding of his hands.  “Please don’t,” he amended softly, his eyes rimmed in red as he composed himself.  “Please don’t leave, I don’t want to lose you again, I’m so sorry…”

Bucky froze, standing awkwardly.  He glanced once more towards the large window before letting out the breath he had been holding.  

Bucky jerked a nod before returning to his seat and drew his knees up to his chest.  “But you deserve to know that you may have already lost him.  I don’t feel like the man the museum described.  I’m not a hero.  Some of the things in my head – I don’t know how to be like that.”  Bucky flinched and his voice dropped to a whisper, “I don’t know how much of your friend is left.”  

Steve swallowed, desperately trying to reign in his feelings.  “I don’t know all the details of what happened,” he admitted, his eyes darting to the file.  “But I refuse to believe he’s gone.  You pulled me from the river, didn’t you?”

Bucky gave a one-armed shrug. “Technically I caught you before you hit the Potomac.  But you were unconscious at the time, so I guess I forgive the mistake.”  Was that a _joke_?  
  
Bucky’s hint of levity was gone as soon as it appeared, contorting into a grimace. “I hurt you.  Bad.  I was the reason you were unconscious to begin with.”  He took a long breath. “I’m sorry.  It’s no excuse, but I couldn’t stop myself.”  

“I know that,” Steve asserted.  “I know you were under Hydra’s control.  I know they were…” he motioned helplessly with his hands, “doing _something_ to you to make you do what they wanted.”  He caught his eyes, “I _know_ it, Bucky, you would never…”

Bucky shrugged again, “Doesn’t make it better.  Doesn’t take the fact I beat you half to death away.  It doesn’t change the things I did when they had me, or the people I hurt, their families...” He looked pointedly back to the file.  “That’s only a small sampling,” he added bitterly.  

“It makes it _better_ ,” Steve insisted stubbornly.  He made eye contact with Bucky, carefully enunciating each word, “You’re not the enemy, you’re a victim.  A prisoner of war.  It doesn’t make it _right_ but it does make a difference.”

Bucky worked his jaw in consideration.  Did he even know how familiar that mannerism was?  Bucky had done the same thing when pouring over maps with him as he planned out places to set up snipers’ nests.  Finally, quietly, Bucky conceded, “I’m not sure how to make it right, if it’s even possible.  I don’t know what to do.  I guess that’s why I came here.”  

Steve finally settled back a bit, resting an elbow on the arm of the sofa.  “You can’t change the past,” he said after a moment.  “You can only do the best with the information you have now, at this moment,” he pointed for emphasis.  “Look, I’m not trying to say- God dammit,” he let out a sigh and rubbed his face, frustrated with himself.  “I can’t even begin to imagine what you must be going through, but I do know the fact that it’s tearing you up inside speaks volumes about the kind of man you really are.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, face pinching as he stared at his hands in his lap for several moments.  When he looked back up at Steve, his eyes were red-rimmed.  “Trust me, it’s probably better you don’t.  I wouldn’t wish that on you – fuck, on anyone.”  He sighed, scrubbing his right hand over his face.  “Will you help me fill in the gaps about the stuff before that?  I want to remember who Bucky – who _I_ was, before all that.  I don’t know if it will bring any of it back or not, but I want to remember, even if for no other reason than Hydra was trying to take it away from me. ”  

“Of course,” he said without hesitation.  “For one,” he started, “after my mother died, I was all alone - I mean, I was gonna be.  You opened your home to me,” he nodded to the surroundings, “I get to make good on that one, pal.”

“You would let me stay here?” Bucky blinked rapidly.  “After everything I did to you?  Even with what I’ve turned-” he shook his head, huffing, “You shouldn’t trust me.”  

“Maybe not, but I do.” he said honestly.  “You could have killed me a hundred times by now if that’s what you wanted.”  Steve learned over and slowly - watching Bucky’s eyes - put his hand on his right shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “I can risk being wrong, considering what’s at stake.”

Bucky tensed at the contact, inhaling with a close-mouth gasp, eyes darting between Steve’s hand and his eyes a few times before the dam broke and, ever so subtly, he leaned into the touch.  “Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper.  The softness on Bucky’s face was heartbreaking in response to such a simple contact.  

Bucky sunk into the quiet rapport for a few precious moments; Steve would have been happy had it lasted forever, but eventually Bucky’s face tightened once more and he leaned away.  “There have to be people looking for me.” Bucky stood up, wringing his hands.  “Hydra, SHIELD, any number of governments, fuck if I know who else, but now that organizations know that the Winter Soldier isn’t just a rumor… Are you sure about me staying here?”

“I’ll pull some strings, figure out what’s going on.”  Steve sighed, knowing that he was bringing up valid points.  He was probably the only person in the world who didn’t see this man as a terrorist.  “Things are so chaotic right now that as long as you lay low I think you’ll be safe here for at least a week or two.  Those people who really see you as a threat, Buck, wouldn’t expect to find you in my apartment.”

Bucky let Steve’s words hang in the air for a moment before turning back to him, seriously.  “But why?  Why risk all this for _me_?  You’d be better off without the… complications I’m gonna bring.”

“Because I love you, Bucky.” The words blurted from his mouth, raw and low, before he had the chance to reconsider.    

Bucky looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.  “I don’t, I can’t-” He protested helplessly.

 _Fuck_.  “Look,” Steve interjected, holding up a hand, “I know it’s not the same as it used to be, and I know things are different and complicated, and….” He exhaled as his mind raced to find the words to smooth over his faux pas.  “I owe to it to his memory at the very least, ok?  And I want to.  I want to help _you_ , because whatever is left of him in you?  It’s enough.”

Bucky’s mouth drew tight.  “The Bucky you knew?  He must have been a great person.  I don’t know if I know how to be someone that’s even worthy of his legacy, let alone of being loved.” 

“Hey…” Steve fretted, holding his hands up again in submission.  “I know this has got to be overwhelming.  I’m not asking anything of you, ok?”  He took a steadying breath, “You asked why I wanted to help; I just want to be honest with you.  I’m not expecting you to do anything.”  Steve gestured to his apartment, “Just, know you have a safe place here.  I’ll protect you.”

A mote of hope shone in Bucky’s eyes as he met Steve’s gaze, scrutinizing him almost uncomfortably long.  Finally, he nodded, as if he had found what he was looking for somewhere in the recesses of his mind.  “I believe you.  I’m probably being almost as stupid as you are, but I believe you.”  Bucky moved to the windows, pointedly drawing the curtains closed.  “But, if you’re sure you’re good with me staying, you ought’a be more careful yourself.  Based on the fucking regular routine you had here – and unlocked windows - maybe you’re the one that needs the protecting,” he added with a ghost of a rueful smirk.  

God this felt familiar.  

A heart-melting smile broke over Steve’s face - his trademark lopsided one that Natasha insisted resembled a golden retriever.  “Well you always had my six,” he admitted, getting up.  “I have so many questions,” he said, pulling his phone out and tapping on the screen.  “But first, I’m ordering like 20 pizzas.”

As if on cue, Bucky’s stomach gave an enthusiastic growl.  “For… for both of us?”  Bucky blinked, surprised.  

“Of course, is that enough?” Steve hesitated.  Had he miscalculated Bucky’s metabolism?  “I mean, I can pack them away but I usually tap out around six.”

“Y-yes, of course!”  Bucky followed Steve to his feet, obviously bewildered.  “In exchange for food, the least I owe you is some answers.”  

_Oh no._   A knife twisted in Steve’s heart.  What had he been eating?  _Had_ he been eating?  How in the hell had he been treated if he seemed this confused by a simple offer of food.  “Bucky, no – this isn’t – some kind of _exchange_.  I just… you’ve gotta be hungry.  I want to talk, ask questions: those two things aren’t related.  You don’t have to answer anything if you don’t want to.”

Bucky winced. “I’m sorry, I…” He dug his fingers into his hair with a growl of frustration.  “This isn’t a mission; there are no parameters to follow, and I know this – I _should_ know this, but I- sometimes I drift into the wrong habits.  I don’t know how to be fucking _normal_.”  

“Hey, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” Steve soothed, finishing the order on his phone and slipping it back into his pocket.  

“I want to answer your questions.” Bucky affirmed, standing straighter.  “Please.”  He put on what looked like an attempt at a natural smile, but it came across looking forced with a few too many teeth showing.

“I don’t know where to start,” Steve admitted with a sigh.  “What do you remember?”

Bucky drew in a breath with lifted brows.  “Wow, well, I don’t know the best way to explain it.  Glimpses?  Vignettes?  I mean...”  He ran a hand through his tangled hair with a huff of concentration.  “There’s not a small amount there – but it’s like I’ve got a part-finished puzzle in my head.  The Smithsonian gave me the edges, something to fix them onto – some kinda order, but I know I’ve got a lot of holes, and I’m not sure if I am even remembering the right… how the hell do I put it-  tone? Interpretation? – of all of ‘em.”  

Bucky returned to his seat, exasperated.  “Sometimes I get glimpses of a place that has familiar feels or smells but no context.  Sometimes it’s a full event.  But it’s not like the memories are coming back to me in any kind of order, and half the time I don’t even know where the memories even took place.  So it can be hard to figure out where it fits into that timeline.”  He looked up to Steve helplessly, spreading his mis-matched hands.  

Steve gave a smile and a nod.  “That’s good, Bucky.  Can you remember anything specific that you know is from before the fall?”  _Please, give me something concrete, something you couldn’t have just read off of a placard at the Smithsonian or infer.  Help me believe you._

Bucky swallowed, “I remember growing a tail and being terrified of you and the Howlies finding out.  I remember battles, having your back, setting up snipers’ nests.  Long, cold marches through the mud.  I remember the feel of sand between my toes on the beach and your face red and peeling but refusing to go back inside since we’d scraped together our last nickels to buy a spot on the beach.”  He shook his head with a helpless shrug.  

Steve listened intently, but his smile returned in full force the moment Bucky mentioned the beach, the memory as clear in his mind as if it had happened a summer ago.  “Mom almost killed me for getting so burned.  I think I almost killed me for it, too.”

The distant echo of a smile spread to Bucky’s face.  “Yeah…” His eyes unfocused, his voice soft.  “it got all peely and itchy?  Mr. Paterno, the grocer – he wouldn’t let you work out front since he said you’d scare all the customers.”  

Steve nodded along, his heart swelling in his chest as the little nagging voice in his head finally began to quiet down: this wasn’t something he could have learned in a museum, or read in a Wikipedia article.  It was _him_.  It was _really_ him!  

“You looked like a leper.  I told you that if you had stayed out there another five minutes your whole nose might’a peeled right off.”  The corner of his mouth hooked up and his eyes refocused on Steve.  Then, just like that, Bucky’s smile faded; the light in his eyes retreated away like a scared animal.

“You ok?” Steve asked softly, tilting his head.

“Y-yeah… yeah, I’m alright,” He murmured. “I was somewhere else for a minute.  Sorry - things come back unexpectedly sometimes.  At least, this time it wasn’t a bad memory.”  Bucky threaded his fingers. 

Bucky tapped on his forehead.  “I’ve been trying to keep track of them, though.  The memories.” Bucky sought Steve’s eyes, looking for approval.  “After the Helicarriers… I felt like I was going crazy” He gave a humorless chuckle, “Maybe I was.  Maybe I still am, but I stayed up for days and just wrote down everything I could remember.  It was mostly little things, a lot of really _bad_ things… things Hydra made me do.”  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing thickly and took a few deliberate, measured breaths before continuing, “The more I remembered, the more I realized they had been lying to me for a long time, suppressing who I was.”  

Bucky paused, and Steve wanted to probe, but the haunted look in Bucky’s eyes was the same look he’d seen in the ritual room: horror so deep it gave his skin a grey pallor, pupils retreating to pinpricks.  Instead, Steve remained quiet, allowing Bucky some time to compose himself.    

Bucky took a few minutes, reopening the bottle of water and slowly finishing off what was left.  “I’m sorry.  There’s so much that it starts to get all twisted up in my head.  I know I’m still missing so much, though - I thought maybe you could help me with that.”

“Of course,” Steve smiled encouragingly.  “Do you want me to take a look at what you’ve got, or-?”

Bucky stiffened, shaking his head, “No – I…”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Not yet.  I- maybe later.  There’s…”  He let out a long breath.  “There’s a lot of bad things in there.”  He wrung his hands, “I want to remember who I _was_ , not what Hydra made me into.”

“That’s fine, Buck.  We’ve got time.  As much as you like.”  Steve hesitated, weighing the words lingering on his tongue for a moment before giving them voice, “Bucky… what _did_ happen to you?  When I saw you in D.C., you had horns and wings.  But now aside from your arm, you look normal.  What am I missing?”

Bucky curled further in on himself, wincing.  “Do we have to talk about _that_?”

“I… No.  Of course not.”  This couldn’t have been easy on Bucky, but there was a lot that wasn’t adding up: why couldn’t he remember big chunks of his past? What was was off about his appearance?  Had he found a way to change back, or was what he’d seen in D.C. some sort of temporary demon-form?  Okay, so Bucky was being evasive and probably keeping secrets - but that was fine.  Bucky was scared, and Steve didn’t have to understand everything yet.  He could help him, and maybe earn some more of his trust as they worked through this - _together_.  “Bucky, you can always tell me if you don’t want to talk about something, okay?”  

Bucky glanced up tentatively through a veil of his dark hair, studying him with gleaming eyes before nodding quietly.  

A ring at the doorbell broke the silence, startling Bucky off of the couch and into a crouch as if a gunshot had gone off.  Steve motioned for Bucky to stay put as he went to the door and examined the security camera before opening it up and stepping outside.  

“Alright!  Food’s here!” he announced as he walked back, the succulent smell of hot, greasy pizza wafting in with him, but Steve found himself talking to an empty room.  In the few seconds he had left, Bucky had vanished into thin air without a trace.  For a moment, Steve’s heart kicked up into a frantic panic.  No – he couldn’t be gone.  He had been _right here_.  Steve’s heart pounded against his chest as his eyes swept the room.  He had just turned his back for a minute!  Had he scared him off with his questions?  He shouldn’t have pushed!  He should have - 

But his announcement had barely hung in the air for a few seconds before Bucky silently slid out of his hiding place of Steve’s bedroom.  He sniffed the air with tentative optimism, his stomach chiming in with an insistent rumble as he drifted closer.  Bucky stopped a half dozen paces away, shifting anxiously from foot to foot and eying him like a dog whose master had a plate of food.  

Steve set the sizable stack of boxes down on the dining table, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment to swallow down his rekindled anger for how Hydra must have treated Bucky to have left him like _this_.  He grabbed a six pack of beer from the fridge and a pile of paper napkins before plastering a smile back onto his face.  “Dig in,” he offered, flipping open the lid to display a classic New York style pepperoni.  Steve easily took two large slices in one hand, folding them over and nodded invitingly back to Bucky as he put an impressive dent in his slice with his first bite.

Bucky’s eyes went distant again as he sidled up to the table, “Coney Island…”  His brow ticked as he picked up a slice with his right hand, fingers automatically going to fold it, “Totonno’s.  You’d gotten your first art gig painting an advert… I took ya there to celebrate?”  He blinked again, eyes clearing with a small huff of disappointment.  Quickly, his eyes darted between the pizza in his hand and Steve as if anticipating – despite the invitation – some kind of reprimand.  When none came, he finally took a bite.  Trepidation fled in the wake of pure rapture as Bucky moaned around the slice.  

“See, you’re in there somewhere.”  Steve polished off his first round and took a break to pop open two bottles of beer.  He set one down next to Bucky and helped himself to another generous slice.  “Though, I suppose it’s as good a segue as any,” he said quietly.  “Do you still… you know?  Have to ‘feed’ the other way, too?” 

Bucky’s eyes darted away quickly, his shoulders hunching up as he occupied his mouth with slowly chewing his bite of pizza before finally answering.  “Yes,” he admitted, with an expression that looked like he’d take a bite of rancid fish.  

A chill like the North Atlantic crashed over Steve.  Hydra had had him for more than _seventy years_ and he still had to feed regularly.  That meant… Steve’s stomach clenched, the slice of pizza threatening to come back up.  _Those bastards…_ Steve’s brain fuzzed around the edges at the implications and Steve quickly set his beer down before he shattered the bottle.  

“I wasn’t sure if you knew about that.”  Bucky continued with a flinch, yanking Steve out of his simmering anger.  “I remember being scared of you finding out.”  Bucky continued, taking a swig of the beer, as if trying to wash away the taste from his mouth.  

“I’m sorry,” Steve frowned.  So he didn’t remember them being lovers.  Steve tried to swallow down the bubble of disappointment; maybe it was for the best.  “But yeah, you eventually told me,” he admitted.  “I didn’t mean to make it awkward, but I also didn’t want to you to think, I dunno, like you had to hide something like that from me.”

“Hn,” Bucky chewed on the thought – and more pizza.  “I’m… okay for now.  I can take care of it,” He blustered defensively.  

Steve let it drop, downing the rest of this beer and wishing he had something stronger.  _Much_ stronger.  

“So, what finally did it?”  He asked, blatantly veering the subject away.  “How did you finally get away for good?”

Bucky eyed him, confused.  “You didn’t know?  I thought it was part of your plan.  Master Pierce was killed... it severed his connection.  You, though… the things you were saying to me on the helicarrier… it _was_ starting to get through.  I just don’t know if I would have been able to defy his orders.”

Steve’s face screwed up in disgust.  _Pierce made him call him ‘master’?!_

Bucky set down his beer and took a deep breath, looking Steve directly in the eyes.  “During the war, were you my master?” 

Steve blinked incredulously.  “Me?!”  He eyes narrowed in concern, “Wait - what do you mean by Master?”  Did Bucky really think he was in the same category as vermin as Pierce?! 

Bucky shrunk back, eyes wide.  “I…”  He swallowed, eyes fleeing his face.  After a moment, he continued, his words slow and deliberate.  “I was bound to him, and before him there were others.  Master Lukin… he killed Master Fairbanks to seize control of me,”  He murmured, staring off into the distance again before looking back up to Steve.  “I thought I could only have one at a time, but…” He shrugged helplessly.  “I feel the bond to you.”   
  
Steve felt the cloud of doubt pool in his stomach as he let the words sink in…and what they could imply.  “How does one become your Master? How would I know?”  He swallowed, a million questions queuing up in his mind.  “Wait, are you saying I’m your Master _now_?”

A blue-grey eye hung on Steve, scrutinizing his face, looking for some trace of deception before he sighed.  He hugged his beer and current pizza slice closer. “There’s a complicated ritual…”  

Steve flashed back to the horrifying backroom of the Kreischberg Hydra base, the tinge of ozone in his nose and the arcing blue energy of the tesseract illuminating arcane carvings in the walls.  Bucky tied to a fucking _altar_ in the center of the room, terrified and eyes distant. 

_“…_ blood on a wound.”  

Zola had run away, but not before he dropped a sickle with a clatter.  Bucky’s chest had been flayed into a complex design by the time Steve had gotten there and cut him loose.  _There was blood – so much blood…  I had been injured in the fight… was I bleeding?_   _Was it possible I…?_ _Oh God.  I did.  I leaned over him right before he screamed – the lights flickered…_ Horror settled squarely on Steve’s shoulders.  

“I don’t remember the details.”  Bucky ended quickly, looking questioningly up to Steve and ran a hand through his hair.  “I feel the connection.” He re-emphasized.  “It’s how I found you.  But I think I must have been bound to you before Pierce died… somehow.  It was hard to fight you.”  He finished, eyes skittering away.  

Steve sat back in his chair.  “That’s when everything started,” he breathed mechanically.  “Everything.”

Bucky swallowed thickly.  “When?”  

“The war,” he said hollowly.  “I ‘rescued’ you,” he spat out more bitterly than he intended.  “I thought I had, but I think, I guess, I was too late.”

Bucky was silent for a moment after that, staring down at his left hand with a look of distaste.  “I’m sorry,” Bucky finally said, sliding a mostly-uneaten box of pizza away.   

“It’s not your fault,” Steve quickly reassured.  “I just, what does it mean?  Being your ‘master’?”  Just saying the word brought a grimace to his face; the full implications were terrifying.  

Bucky froze, his lips pressed into a thin line and back going rigid.  “Why?” The question came out sharp and jagged.  

“Is that why…” Steve stopped himself with a breath, not sure he was ready to ask -that- question.  Bucky himself had admitted that he wasn’t sure if he was queer before this ‘hunger’ kept happening.  Later he said that he was just in denial, but now, Steve wondered if Bucky had just been sparing his feelings.

“I don’t want to be your master,” he corrected.  He never wanted that kind of power over anyone, especially Bucky.  _God_ , Steve wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know the full implications of this ‘bond’.  “I mean, I don’t want _anyone_ to be your master.  You shouldn’t _have_ a master.”  

Bucky studied Steve’s face for a long moment before relenting, right hand covering his left.  “Yeah, me neither, pal.  I don’t want any of this.”  He let out a sigh, slumping back in his seat.  

“Can I…not be?” Steve asked honestly.  “I mean, is there a way to disconnect us?”  

Bucky shrugged, his eyes puffy and the dark rings beneath them even deeper.  “I don’t know.  Maybe?  I wouldn’t know where to start.”  He set his chin down on his hands, looking up at Steve.  “I know you didn’t want … _this_.  I know I’m dropping a lot on your lap.  And… for what it’s worth, thank you.  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it.  I’ll have more questions, I’m sure, but right now things are getting jumbled up in my head again.”

“You look exhausted,” Steve said gently, reaching over and giving his right shoulder a squeeze.  “I’m so happy you’re here, Bucky.  Yeah, it’s a lot to take in, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here for you.  You remember that, right? Till the end of the line, okay?”

Bucky’s back straightened and red-rimmed eyes widened, decidedly moist.  The surprise faded to an earnest, choked “I’m not sure if I deserve it, but… thank you, Steve.” His smile may have looked more like a wince, but this time it reached his eyes.  
  
“Why don’t you take the bed?” Steve offered, motioning to his room.  “We’ll work something out, get you somewhere to crash in the extra room soon.”  

Bucky shook his head adamantly, “I’m not takin’ your bed.  You’ve done more than enough as it is.  A floor with some carpet on it is going to be more than I’m used to.  I just need some time.” He finished, beseechingly.    

“Well, at least let me make you a pallet.”  Steve was going to have to choose his battles and arguing with Bucky over who gets a bed wasn’t one he was willing to have.  Anyway, he could see Bucky’s point, and he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.  

He pulled away from the table and retreated back into his bedroom, digging manically through some of his still-unpacked boxes.  It had been on Steve’s list to get a bed in the guest room – _just in case_.  He had never expected to see Bucky again this soon.  Now, he kicked himself for not having been more prepared.  He’d spent the time since he’d gotten to New York chasing his tail and cold leads that barely told him anything he couldn’t have surmised on his own.  Now Bucky was here and he didn’t even have somewhere to sleep set up for him?  He just hoped it didn’t make Bucky feel unwelcome, like this wasn’t exactly what Steve had dreamed of but not dared to actually hope for.

Finally, after ripping open at least a half-dozen boxes of plates, books, art supplies, and knick knacks he didn’t even remember buying, he found what he was looking for.  Steve scooped up an armload of pillows and blankets and headed back out into the main room.   “I’ll show you to your room,” he drawled in a fake formality with a hint of a teasing smile.

Steve shouldered open the set of French doors, revealing a modest room that contained little more than a few unpacked boxes, an easel and scattered art supplies.  “We can clean this up,” he said self-consciously, moving things out of the way, “Get a bed in here, you know, a desk…” He turned back to Bucky, who was glancing around the room, once again clutching his backpack.  

“You were going to paint in here?” Bucky winced.  “Are you sure that this can be… _my_ room?  I don’t want to take your space…”  Guilt and hope flitted across his face. 

“There’s some good light in here,” Steve admitted, “But my patio off the master gets the best.”  He spread out some of the blankets on the ground, folded them in a pad, and arranged some pillows.  “But don’t worry about it.  I think my bed is the about the size of our whole bedroom in that first place we had.  Dunno if you remember that or not, but we’re doing good.”

Bucky’s uncomfortable silence dampened Steve’s rambling.  “Get some rest if you can,” Steve said, straightening.  “I’ll keep watch, okay?  You’re safe here.  There’s plenty of leftover pizza in the kitchen, and you saw where the bathroom was if you need to use it.  Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything else you need, okay?” 

Bucky nodded, eyes furtively examining the corners of the bedroom and the open closet stuffed with more boxes before lingering on the window.

Steve’s chest tightened.  _Please don’t leave the moment I turn my back._ “Okay then.  Well… sleep well, pal. It’s… it’s really good to have you here.  I can’t tell you how much I missed you.”

Bucky made eye contact, and worked his jaw.  “Thanks, Steve.”

The moment Steve stepped out of the room, he heard the door lock slide into place with a decisive click behind him.  Steve tried not to take it personally.  Bucky needed some space; he was probably overwhelmed.  Hell, _he_ was overwhelmed.  Hopefully that meant he had decided to stay.

Sleep nowhere in Steve’s equation, he dug out his sketch pad and charcoal sticks before taking a seat at the table.  His fingers took the lead, flying over the textured paper to recreate the hollow, haunted look of Bucky’s eyes that Steve couldn’t get out of his head in any other way.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI - I also added a small doodle to the first chapter in-line near the end :)  
> Extra thanks to Kamiki for a full-on writing collab this chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

  
Bucky locked the door to the room – _his room_ – with a decisive flick of his fingers.  It was a flimsy mechanism – about as effective as an “occupied” sign, but it was still a lock.  Still some space, some privacy. 

He had hoped that speaking with Steve would help him remember things, and _oh_ , it had.  Motes of memory shone brighter in his presence, illuminating the surrounding context.  But like everything in his life right now, that insight had proven to be a double-edged sword.  He remembered strolling down the pier of Coney Island, side by side with Steve, a greasy hot dog in his hands and a fiver in his pocket he intended on making disappear by the end of the day, because goddamn it: it was his birthday.  But he also remembered the ritual: the pain of having his chest sliced into, of a voice that flowed like water through his ears, locking up his muscles so tight he couldn’t breathe.  He remembered, and had fucking blurted out to Steve, how he had been waiting for rescue.  If the horror and guilt that had appeared on Steve’s face was any indication, that confession hurt him worse than any of his claw swipes on the helicarrier.  

For the first year imprisoned by Hydra, he _knew_ now, he had been in his right mind.  There were no freezes, no chair.  He’d resisted, fought, and been tortured for his efforts.  Every day, his hope for rescue glowed a little dimmer.  Every day, a little more of Bucky Barnes had died.  Every worst case scenario had come to pass; every way he had hoped to escape failed.  He had been told – and believed – that his best friend had died; he had been raped, beaten, and forced to murder his allies.  And those were just the things that he could remember.  

Now, seventy years later, Steve had finally rescued him.  This is what he had been waiting for once upon a time before he lost hope and forgot that there was anything outside the existence of being Hydra’s weapon.  Back when he was still a person who had a life and family that he could go back to, he had expected escape to be like a lightswitch: get free from Hydra and suddenly everything would be better.  And it was, of course it was, but he was still waiting for it to sink in.  Steve had said just hours earlier that when he had rescued Bucky from Kreischberg maybe it was already too late.  Perhaps that’s not what he _meant_ , but Steve was right.  Maybe Steve was too late.  His Bucky had begun to die after the first ritual, to be replaced by the _thing_ he was now.  He didn’t even know how to be a person anymore.  What would Steve do when he realized that?  He could barely hold a conversation without fucking it up.  He couldn’t help but respond to Steve like one of his Hydra masters or shutting down completely.  Now, what was even left to rescue?  

Bucky huffed, forcing himself to stand back up and stop fucking moping. He couldn’t handle more conversation with Steve, but left alone to his own devices he was spiraling back into self-loathing.  He closed the shutters with a twist of the stick, plunging the room into a pleasant dimness.  Then he stripped out of his combat boots, worked open each of the myriad snaps of his tac jacket, and hung it on one of the empty hangers in the closet.  

It was still the middle of the goddamned day, but he forced himself to lie down on the pallet Steve had made for him.  

Here he lay, well-fed, with nice, soft blankets, and a whole backpack full of things that were his.  He shouldn’t be complaining; he just didn’t feel like he belonged here.  Not in this room; hell, he maybe not in the entire goddamn world.  He was an abomination, and his presence was a patch of dirt mucking up the joint.  

Maybe he could pretend to be the Bucky Steve remembered, but how long could he keep up the act?  

He belonged somewhere once – before he had been changed into a monster – but he could hardly remember what life was like before he was captured, let alone before the war.  He’d been assembling his precious snippets of memory, but remembering things and being that stranger from before were two entirely different things.  How did he reclaim the senses of hope, wonder, and humor that Bucky Barnes had once worn as comfortably as a hat set jauntily askew?  The reemergence of memories only served to create a sharper contrast between the hopeful, whole-hearted young man and the broken creature he was now.

Exhaustion clung to him like a waterlogged coat, and eventually sleep would win over his paranoia and shame and the guise would fail.  Steve had seen him like _that_ before, but he wasn’t ready to see the disappointed look in his eyes or the grimace that would inevitably come when Steve saw, up close, just how much of a monster he had become; when Steve realized that that was the real him, and that this visage of the Bucky he remembered was the illusion.  

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  

He was supposed to find a cure, but instead the disease had run its full course.  Now he wore the evidence of his sins on his body like scars: the arm, the horns… this is what they did to him!  What they turned him into.  Every day these demon features would stand as a reminder of the murders he committed; the way Hydra used him for his skills and his body.  What kind of life could he even have like this?!

Soft sounds of pencil on paper drifted from the main room: the light skritch-scratch touched on a nerve so familiar that a muscle Bucky didn’t even realize he had been tensing eased.  He was safe here.  Bucky slid his eyes closed, letting the noises carry him into a past life: a night in after a long day of work with someone as comforting and familiar as family; the patter of rain against windows and the lingering scent of mashed potatoes and boiled cabbage.  Steve’s slender body bent over a pad of paper nearly half his size, a divot between his brows and his tongue stuck out in concentration.  A smudge of charcoal smeared across Steve’s nose – he probably hadn’t even noticed transferring it there when he’d wiped at it with his hands, nearly black to the wrists.  Bucky wanted to reach over, wipe it off for him and tease him… it would be an excuse to touch him, meet his eyes and smile.

But he wouldn’t interrupt.  Instead, he put a record on, filling the room with an easy brassy beat and the honeyed voice of Doris Day…  
 

> _“C’mon, Buck.  I got it home, just like I said.”  Steve was going for obstinate, but he couldn’t quite suppress his shit-eating grin._  
>    
>  _“Yeah, yeah.  Guess I should’a specified getting it home in one piece.  The hell did you do to this thing?_ ”  
>    
>  _“Hey, it’s all in one piece!  Nothing’s missing!  Though maybe I knocked a few wires loose…”_  
>    
>  _“Knocked a few wires loose…” Bucky mumbled, already prying open the radio cabinet and poking around.  “You’re gonna have to tell me how you got it up here, ya know.”_
> 
> _“Nope.  That wasn’t part of our bet.  You bought it; I got it home.  Besides, you know you love the excuse to check out its insides.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, yeah… You’re lucky I like this stuff,” Bucky snorted, turning his attention to the tuning deck.  One of the wires did seem to have worked loose, after all.  As he moved it towards one of the tubes, static hissed to life, grating just on the wrong side of painful and set Bucky’s teeth on edge._
> 
> _Steve’s hands clapped over his ears, “Think you can get it working before my hearing gets any worse?”_
> 
> _Bucky set his jaw, jiggled a wire, and –_
> 
> _The static noise became palpable, a charge in the air that set the hairs along the back of his neck on edge.  The audible hiss grew louder, taking on an angry, harsh tone… boring into his skull.  His arms locked in place; the crown lowering over his head as the mechanical whine cycled louder… louder…_
> 
> _No._
> 
> _That wasn’t right._
> 
> _He reconnected the wire, securing it to the tuning gang and the churning whir leveled out, smoothing into a lazy melody, strings resolving out of the static._
> 
> _“There,” he crowed, only barely avoiding knocking his head as he pulled out of the cabinet.  As he turned back to face Steve, triumphant, his words stalled in his throat.  Hazy amber lamplight backlit his friend and filled their small tenement apartment like amber vapor; motes of dust danced in the air like stars.  Steve’s sky-blue eyes glimmered with pride, the only contrast in the golden world._
> 
> _“There.” He repeated, clearing his throat.  “Now you’ve got no excuses for not letting me teach you how to dance-”_
> 
> _His own voice grew dimmer in his ears until he was listening through water; the golden hues of the room intensified until everything was honey.  The weight he didn’t realize he was missing coalesced around him, resolving into…_
> 
> _…_  
>    
>   

__  
__

__  


Darkness and warmth, a hazy amber glow splashing him across the face. He turned his head with a disgruntled groan, throwing up his arm to shield his eyes from… from?

He tentatively cracked opened sleep-crusted eyes to cheerful sunlight streaming in through slats of the blinds.  A savory scent drifted into the room, promising fresh eggs and fried bacon and pulled him by the nose to full consciousness.  The last dregs of his dreams spiraled away, evaporating in the morning light, leaving him with only the alien feeling of waking up after a full night’s sleep.  

Christ, he’d been dreaming.

He was almost certain that he never dreamt in cryosleep, and dreams had been few and far between since his escape.  But then again, so had sleep.  Letting his guard down for a few scattered hours had been a terrifying concept, and pushing himself well past the point of exhaustion was standard operating procedure for The Winter Soldier.  But here, knowing Steve was there, keeping watch, protecting him?  On some deep level, Bucky must have truly trusted him to have slept so soundly.  

How long had it been since he’d even caught a short nap?  Four days?  Five?  No wonder his thoughts had become muddled and gravitated towards depression.  Rested, he felt more grounded. 

Glancing around the room, Bucky detected no signs of entry.  Steve had respected his privacy.  He hadn’t commanded him to stay or given him any standing orders.  The only thing Steve had given him was help - and a space that he was allowed to call his own. 

Bucky took a deep, lung-filling breath and allowed himself a long stretch of his wings and tail before cloaking his features once more in his guise. 

Digging through his backpack, he fished out his cleanest shirt – the button up he’d worn to the club.  Bucky crinkled his nose as a bouquet of cigarette smoke, alcohol, cologne and sex filled the air as he scrunched the fabric in his hands.  Shaking his head, he tossed the shirt into the corner of the room and pulled out the nondescript long-sleeve pullover he had first worn in the wake of the attack in D.C.  Rank body odor clung to it, and stains that Bucky didn’t care to identify marred the fabric, but he’d rather wear that than something that reminded him of feeding when facing Steve again.  
  
Pulling it on over his head, Bucky unlocked the door to the room – _his room!_ – with a soft click, heralding his arrival back to the land of the living.  He followed his nose out of the bedroom, realizing just how hungry he was.  He’d barely touched the pizza before he lost his appetite; the hot and savory bliss had quickly turned to cardboard and grease in his mouth when the conversation drifted to the bond.  

Now, whatever Steve was cooking smelled like fucking heaven.  

He squinted against the too-bright living room, heavy combat boots quiet as kitten’s paws as he padded out and onto the hardwood floor.  His stained, off-white pullover replaced the strappy leather jacket, giving Bucky a softer, if skuzzier, presence.  He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, though the gesture did little to tame the long, greasy hair of his tousled mane, and sniffed the air hopefully.  

Steve was standing in front of the stove, the steam from sizzling bacon framing his expansive shoulders against the light streaming into the room.  He was wearing a white sports shirt that tugged over every muscle and strained around the massive bulk of his biceps.  To Bucky, it appeared three sizes too small, as if it was one of his old shirts he’s stubbornly pulled over his new, alien size.  

The shirt accentuated his disproportionately slender waist, especially where it stopped just over his shapely ass.

Despite his silence, Steve’s shoulders tensed, jerking Bucky from his thoughts as he turned around.  Steve brows lifted, his mouth forming an adorable “o” before spreading into a big lopsided smile.

“Just in time for breakfast,” he chimed, turning his attention back to the iron skillet.  “I thought you might have left,” he admitted, “but I didn’t want to check.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said softly, throat still gummy from sleep.  The idea having that promised privacy fulfilled was even more unfamiliar than having a good night’s sleep.  Wait, how long _had_ he slept?  Bucky blinked and glanced at the angle of light streaming into the kitchen.  Sure enough, that was the delicate, golden hues of morning.  “Did I sleep all day!?”

“Well,” Steve said as he scraped a heaping portion of scrambled eggs and several thick strips of bacon onto a plate and set it on the bar.  He motioned to the stool in front of him invitingly as he went to cracking more eggs into the pan.  “You didn’t leave your room at least.”

The pop of the toaster caused an automatic stiffening of Bucky’s stance, even if was just for a moment.  Steve’s smile carried a ghost of sympathy as he pulled the bread the machine and tossed in on the waiting plate.  “Yeah, that used to spook me, too.  Anyway, I figured you could probably use the sleep,” he admitted, finishing up the next round of eggs and making a plate for himself.  “God knows you looked like it,” he grabbed a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, giving a half-hearted, “No offense.”

Bucky rolled his shoulders, sliding onto one of the stools. “None taken.  I guess I hadn’t slept in a while; I don’t think I realized how tired I was,” he admitted, his mouth was already watering at the inviting aroma.  “Thanks for keeping watch.”  He ran his tongue over chapped lips. It had been hard letting his guard down and Bucky’s memory was swiss cheese, but every memory of Steve that had surfaced had inspired trust and confidence, and so far he was bewilderingly living up to unrealistic expectations.  Maybe that’s why Bucky was letting admissions slip so easily that he probably should have kept guarded. 

Bucky kept his hands in his lap, lacing his fingers as he stared at the heaping plate of food in front of him.  Real fucking food.  Food his masters and the STRIKE teams ate in front of him but he hadn’t been permitted to partake in.  

_If he was lucky, they’d feed him in a different way – “second hand” Rumlow had called it._

He shuddered, dismissing the flash and refocused on Steve’s impossibly blue eyes.  “You cooked this for _me_?”

Steve shrugged, sitting down on the barstool next to him and poured them both a tall glass of the juice.  “Since you slept for eighteen hours, that means you haven’t eaten in as long, so I figured if your metabolism is anything like mine you’d be about ready to eat.”  

As if to prove a point he piled two pieces of bacon and a mound of eggs onto his toast and almost took the whole piece in one bite.  Steve always could pack away a surprising amount of food, even for his previous feather-weight.

“Buh yewf goda promfiss meh uhl ta a baff,” he muffled around his food, giving a playful wink as he crinkled his nose in distaste of Bucky’s odor.

Bucky had just shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, savoring the pop of inconceivably divine, buttery flavor, when he nearly snorted them out in a surprised laugh.  He swallowed quickly, coughing as they tried to go down the wrong pipe.  “Yeah,” He wheezed between coughs, “Okay.  You’re probably right.  I was makin’ due, okay?  I wasn’t staying at the fucking Ritz before I got here.”  
  
Bucky didn’t know where the easy cadence in his voice had come from, but the more he talked with Steve, the more casual his inflection became.  When he’d been on honeypot missions, his tongue had remembered how to spin golden temptation no matter how detached his mind was.  Like firing a weapon, it was a skill set he could use regardless if he could remember how he’d learned.  This was similar: his responses fell into rapport with Steve as habitually as riding a bicycle or throwing a knife.  And he wasn’t complaining – he really wasn’t – but the experience was a touch surreal.  

 “But food first, right?”  A request this close to a demand would have gotten him punished at Hydra, but he was damn near the point of being willing to rip off his other arm to be allowed to finish this plate of eggs and – _Christ,_ the bacon.  Perfectly thick yet crispy, and real meat.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real meat (aside from the few meager bites of pizza he’d had before he lost his appetite); certainly nothing in those expired MREs qualified.  A half-feral part of him screamed to shovel it into his mouth as fast as he could in case the offer was revoked as a cruel test - _It wouldn’t be the first time_ – but the rusty, distant voice of the past insisted that this was legitimate.  He was allowed.   
  
And if he was wrong about Steve, he’d rather find out now than later.  
  
Steve clapped his back, giving a sheepish half-grin.  “Of course, of course…” he conceded.  “Please, seriously, eat as much as you want.”

Steve phone vibrated on the countertop.  When he checked the message, he finished off his toast and set his fork down. “Mmmm…” he swallowed, “So while I was waiting for you to wake up one day,” he pushed away from the bar and headed towards the door to the flat, “I did some shopping.”

Bucky immediately made himself scarce, disappearing around the corner with his plate of eggs and bacon.  Hackles up and wary, he called after Steve’s retreating figure. “I didn’t think you left?”  Old fear twisted his stomach – had he let his guard down in an empty house?  Steve had _promised._

“I didn’t,” he said smugly as he opened the door just as a person in plainclothes was approaching with his an armful of paper bags.  “Let me help,” he said to the younger man who still had a pile of more bags by the door.  

By the time they were done and the delivery person had left, there was a heap of at least dozen stuffed brown paper bags.  “You can order almost everything online nowadays,” he said as he pulled out a loaf of bread and a package of crisp white boxer-briefs.  “I figured, you know, you probably needed some provisions?”

An incredulous scowl found its way to Bucky’s face as he slipped back into the living room, awkwardly holding his now-empty plate.  “So you’re telling me that you had someone bring you drawers?  And bread.”  He shook his head, bewildered, but a flicker of curiosity drew him closer.  

Bucky’s brow furrowed as something else shook loose in his mind, “You… used to do grocery delivery, didn’t you?  I think I would ‘a remembered if the grocer’s sold underwear, though.”  _Right?  Surely, if women’s’ knickers were on sale next to the potatoes, Bucky would have remembered that, for nothing if not how red Steve’s face would ‘a turned if he’d have had to stock that._

“Sure did,” Steve said as he tossed the underwear straight at his face.  “But no, no underwear back at Green Thumbs.”  

Bucky’s left arm snatched the package out of the air on reflex, managing to not drop his empty plate in the process.  He blinked owlishly at Steve, but this felt somehow… _familiar_.  His body remembered how to grin at Steve’s stunt even if the ridiculous mock-attack was bewildering to the Soldier in him.  

Steve began to unpack the bags, laying out their contents like a haul of loot: big butcher packs of steaks, a bag of potatoes, a block of cheese, a few jars of spaghetti sauce, a gallon of milk, rice, boxes of pasta, a huge bag of frozen peas and corn, deli containers of cauliflower florets, baby carrots, and sliced rutabagas, cartons of strawberries and blueberries, three dozen eggs, two loaves of bread, pancake mix, at least half a dozen six-packs of something called “muscle milk”, hot dogs and buns, deli meats wrapped in butcher paper…and just in the next bag over there was deodorant, toothpaste and brush, a package of disposable razors, shave cream, and a vinyl pouch to carry it all, a package of white undershirts, socks, a basic pair of basic black long-sleeved shirts, a pair of sweatpants, a package of stretchy sports gloves, a burgundy hoodie, a black ball cap, a package of full sized bed sheets, a exorbitantly plush white bath towel, a loofah, and a prepaid cell phone.  

As if this wasn’t surreal enough, before Bucky had finished processing everything, Steve piped up with “There’s a mattress coming later.”

“Now you’re pulling my leg,” he accused, looked up from the overwhelming bounty, reeling.  Tentatively, Bucky sat his empty plate on the counter and drew closer, anxiously squeezing the bag of underwear between his hands.  “But… what’s all this for?” Surely, this couldn’t all be for _him_ : the idea was vertigo-inducing.  Once upon a time he may have had a home, but there was a war and decades of imprisonment between now and then.  Just a few weeks ago, he had had _nothing_.  Anything Hydra allowed him to use could be taken from him without warning and the message had been clear: he _was_ a possession.  After seizing his freedom, he had scraped together a small assortment of useful objects he had allowed himself to call his own: nothing that couldn’t fit into the backpack and taken if he had to run.  First a room, and then this amount of _things_ – Bucky could barely process the concept.   
  
“Us,” Steve said with a shrug, looking around the apartment.  “Well, the food.  I figured you, uh, probably didn’t have much on you.”

“It’s nothing,” he insisted before Bucky could protest.  “Really.  God knows you were almost as stubborn about accepting charity as I used to be, but you gotta start somewhere, right?”

Most people would have thought of this vast assortment of things as ‘basics’, but for Bucky?  “It is _so_ much, Steve,” he murmured quietly, brain sputtering at how to even begin to process this offer.  “But what do I do – I mean, where does it go,” He shook his head with a frustrated huff, that’s not what he meant – what was he trying to say?!  This should be _easy_ ; why was this so difficult?

“It wouldn’t all fit in my backpack, I mean,” He spoke slowly, trying to put into words what he was feeling, having to remind himself that it was OK to ask questions.   

_I haven’t been punished yet, at least.  Maybe he’ll change his mind, maybe this is a trap, maybe -_

Steve’s hand was back on that spot - that magical spot between his neck and his shoulders - and he squeezed encouragingly.  “Well, for now you can keep it in your room.  I’ve got plenty of boxes you can use.”  He let the pause linger for a moment.  “And _if_ you decide to stay, we can go shopping for some dressers and stuff later.”

Bucky swallowed audibly, squeezed his eyes shut and focused on Steve’s big, warm had on him. “You’ve done more than enough, already, Steve.  You’re already taking a risk just letting me stay here.”  It was easier to focus his thoughts like this, with his eyes closed.  Steve wasn’t like his Hydra masters – he wasn’t setting him up, offering him nice things he wasn’t allowed to have to punish him.  _He won’t punish me._   

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re safe, Buck.”  There was the Captain America voice again.  “We can figure out the details later after getting more intel.”  

He opened his eyes, fixing them on Steve.  “You want me to stay here.”  It wasn’t a question, but his eyes searched Steve’s for guidance.  

“I do want you to stay here. I think you need some time to get your head straight.”  He fished for the words, “It’s called self-care. It’s like, trying to sprint on a sprained ankle; you’re going to hurt yourself worse in the end.”

“And if I decide I want to leave…?” He pressed, cautiously.  

“Is this a test?” Steve asked with a wry quirk to his lips but shrewd eyes.  

“Yeah, punk, it’s a test,” Bucky huffed.  The words felt _so familiar._ Even though there was fear behind Steve’s eyes, even though it would be so easy for him to lie and say exactly what Bucky wanted to hear, he _knew_ Steve wouldn’t lie to him.  

_“Steve can’t lie to save his life,”_ he heard himself complain a lifetime ago to a girl with a green dress that matched her eyes, her dark hair tied into braids.  

Steve let go of Bucky’s shoulder and he held out his palms, “I’m not your jailer, Bucky.  You’re free to leave, but I _do_ want you to stay.  I want to help you.”  He shoved his large hands into his pockets, giving a hopeful shrug.   
  
Bucky weighed Steve’s words, working his jaw.  Staying here, with Steve – his chest panged at the idea.  He _wanted_ to, he realized– he really did, even if paranoia crawled up his spine to whisper about all the things that could go terribly wrong.  

Bucky swallowed down the flittery panic.  _No one’s ordering me to do anything.  I can do what I want to do._   

Having no mission or plan of action was disorienting.  Even in the abandoned store that had been his safehouse before this, Bucky had focused on shifting through his minefield of a memory for every scrap of information about his past.  It was exhausting, but it was like a mission: he had an objective.  It had been _so_ long since he’d had a mission, or been in cryo-sleep, or even at fucking war. “I came here for answers, but I didn’t have a plan after that.  I don’t know how to do this, or what it is I’m supposed to be doing,” he finally breathed with a self-depreciating shake of his head.  “But I think I want to give this a shot – whatever ‘this’ is.”  He awkwardly mirrored Steve’s previous gesture, setting his right hand on Steve’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  

“That’s – that’s _great,_ Buck.  And you don’t have to have a plan right now,” Steve offered, softly.  “And when you’re ready, I can help you figure out what steps you need to take.”

“How do _you_ do it?  Put aside the war, and come… _is_ this home?” Bucky demanded suddenly, eyes seeking Steve’s and flickering around the still mostly-empty condo with piles of unpacked boxes.  

Bucky’s question knocked Steve back, his jaw suddenly tightening.  “I guess it depends on your definition of what a home is.”  He gave a sigh as he rolled the words around in his mouth, “But I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask.  I don’t know how well I’m doing in that department, either.” 

“Someone had an awful sense of humor when they named me the Winter Soldier, because it was fucking true,” Bucky growled.  “I feel like I’ve always been at war – a place I never even wanted to be, Steve.  But that’s all I’ve lived and breathed for seventy goddamned years: on the front, a fucking war of spies and assassins, or a prisoner behind enemy lines.  All I’ve known is war.  How do you come home from that?”

Steve produced an awful smile.  “I think, sometimes, I’m still waiting to come home.  When I shipped off to basic, you were already overseas.  I packed up the apartment, and anything I couldn’t take with me to Camp Lehigh, I left with your folks.  I knew the old tenement wasn’t going to be home if I did come back – but I wasn’t even sure if there was going to be an ‘after’.”  

Either the mention of his family or Steve’s pessimistic view on his odds when he’d enlisted should have struck a railroad spike into Bucky’s heart.  Instead, the blows landed on numbed flesh: emotions tied up with another life.  Or, maybe, it was simply still frozen, just waiting to thaw and expose even more raw nerves.  

Steve gestured to the large window and the city beyond it.  “So the old tenement isn’t home; I think there’s a laundromat where it used to be.  None of our friends or family are still around.  Hell, even most of my things from before I woke up are in a museum or some private collection now.  It’d be crass to ask for them back, but it doesn’t matter: they’re not home, either.  They’re just things.”  Steve nudged the pile of provisions with the toe of his shoe.  “Seeing you on the Causeway, Buck, that’s the most home I’ve felt in a long time.”

His throat went tight, and Bucky avoided eye contact by going to kneel by the pile, squeezing a colorful ball of tangled, netted plastic.   “Well, great - sounds like we might both up the same damn creek.  When Hydra had me, before I forgot who I was, this is all I wanted.  Now that I’m here, it’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”  

_God I’m such a fucking mess._

“I – I don’t know what to do with myself, but…” He blew out a sigh, shaking his head.  “One step at a time, I guess.” 

Steve gave a resolute nod.  “Besides, you’re not doing nothing: you’re laying low,” he offered.  “Maybe you can, uh, start with that bath we talked about, mm?”

Yes; good -  it was time to put this conversation to bed.  “Yeah, you made your point,” Bucky snorted, “I know I’m stinking up this nice place of yours.”  Bucky kept his tone light, but self-conscious flickered in his chest.  

Steve clapped his back, motioning to the door that led to the washroom.  “C’mon, grab some toiletries, and let’s get you cleaned up.”

In the massive pile of things Steve had had delivered, Bucky identified a few of them as hygiene products.  Tentatively, he collected the toothpaste, brush, shaving cream, and the strange plastic safety razors before following after him.  

The bathroom was sparkling clean with a standing shower, double vanity, fancy looking tub, and two doors.  In his initial inspection of the apartment, he had discovered that one of them led directly to Steve’s master bedroom.  Swanky digs, especially for a damn private bathroom.  

Steve opened up one of the cabinets, retreiving a set of navy blue towels and a basket of what appeared to be a few bottles and round, tennis-ball sized spheres of compressed powder.  “The uh, shampoo and soap is there,” he stammered after he cleared his throat.  Bucky knew that move, the little tingle of pink that started at the bridge of his nose; he was embarrassed about something.  “But, if you want,” he gestured to the basket he had blatantly held out to him “ _If you want,_ there’s some stuff in here, that uh, Natasha turned me onto.  They’re salts and stuff, you know, it’s nice?”

Bucky set down his armload of toiletries on the vanity and turned to Steve.  “Salts and stuff?  I thought I was takin’ a bath here, not baking a cake.”  Bucky drifted closer to inspect the perplexing, bottled liquids and scented ball.  He sought Steve’s eyes with a quirked brow, couldn’t figure what there was to be embarrassed about, but Steve’s reaction brought a bemused quirk of a smile to his lips.  

“Not baking a cake, it’s just, kind of you know, girly,” he admitted.  “I mean, it’s not, but people think it is.”  

Bucky snorted, “I can deal with girly.”  To put Steve’s nervousness to bed, he grabbed a small blue-tinted bottle and screwed open the lid.  He wafted it towards his face; a concentrated scent of citrus and a spicy pepper exploding into his nose that exuded an aura of warmth and comfort.  It was unlike the super floral, sweet scents he usually associated with the girly perfumes.  “It smells nice.”  The thought of smelling like a mix of spices and citrus instead of BO and sick was admittedly rather appealing.  The idea that he was _allowed_ to, even more so.

“It may sounds silly, but sometimes soaking in a hot bath is the only time I feel completely warm.”

“I saw in the museum that you were discovered in a hunk of ice.”  This time, the shards found home in his chest.

_Vaporous arms of pure cold stretched out towards him as he was forced to step into the cryo chamber.  The door slammed shut, crystals immediately forming along the tiny window, turning his world into nothing but cold so painful that it turned his bones to ice…_

“It’s been a long time since I had a hot bath,” he said simply, fingers going to fidget with the hem of his stained sweatshirt.  

Steve reached over and turned the handle, starting the faucet of water.  “I can give you some privacy…” he hesitated, glancing back at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

“Thanks,” Bucky said wetly, as warm steam billowed into the room and slipped into his clothes, thawing his perpetually clammy skin.  “This… this looks nice.  And I can just…” he waved vaguely at the pile of things by the sink, “Experiment?  With any of it?  And how much hot water is allowed?  Am I given a timeframe?”    He needed to make absolutely sure he didn’t break any kind of rule – the clawing anxiety that refused to go away insisted that he would do something unintentional to upset Steve; that this earnest, helpful demeanor was a façade to lull him into a mistake that would lead to punishment that – 

_Stop it._

“You can use whatever you want,” Steve motioned with a careful smile.  “I have a tankless water heater so there’s no worrying about the hot water.”  He shrugged, “well, I mean, try not to flood the room or anything,” he added lightly, trying to reassure Bucky.  

He hovered by the door to his master bedroom.  “I’ll be right in there, if you need anything?”  Steve may not have asked explicitly, but Bucky saw the unspoken offer to stay for what it was.

He swallowed down the nerves.  A bath.  He could handle a bath.  

Bucky nodded decisively, “I think I can manage.”  He wasn’t sure what a tankless water heater was, but no ration on hot water?  It was hard to conceive of something so indulgent, but he was surprised to find himself looking forward to the bath.  “What should I do with my…?” He gestured to his soiled shirt.  

“Just leave them on the floor, we can throw in the washing machine later.”  Steve hovered for another few moments, “Enjoy yourself,” he added helpfully, before opening the door.  Bucky caught just a glimpse of the room with art supplies spread out over the bed before the door slid closed behind him and Bucky had the room all to himself.

He peeled out of his clothing, tossing them into a pile in the corner of the room, and used the head while the tub was filling.  Already, the bathroom had grown warm and humid, the running faucet a siren call of invitation.  

Slipping into the hot water was somehow better than the eggs and bacon, better than sleeping on a soft palette with warm blankets, and almost better than sex - _almost_.  He didn’t care that he let out a long moan of relief as he sank down into the six inches of warm water that had filled the bottom of the basin.  

Two inches more than wartime rations, and that wasn’t even warm.  The damn tub was two feet deep and he had _no limits._

Experimentally, he poured the contents of the blue bottle into the water and the spicy scent immediately enveloped him: foamy suds forming along the top of the water as thick as cotton candy.   Thick enough he could lift a handful of it out of the water and it kept its shape.  It was decadent; it was _delightful_.  Something about the citrusy aroma smoothed his hackles.  The fact that there was still newness and joy in the world and he could find _pleasure_ in something as simple as a new scent was so unexpected that Bucky just stared at the dense foam in his hands for a few moments.  

Tentatively, glancing towards the closed adjoining door to Steve’s bedroom, he twisted the water handle all the way to the left, and the temperature went from pleasant to deliciously scalding.  

“Holy fuck,” slipped from his lips as he sunk down into the water.  Distantly, Bucky realized that the temperature would have been too hot to stand for most, but he was enjoying this too much to give a damn about that right now.  His skin came alive in the scorching heat and finally, _finally_ it felt like he was banishing the lingering cold of cryo for fucking _good_.  

He laid his head against the back of the tub and let his eyes slide closed, the running faucet a pleasant white noise to let his mind go blank.  The crisp, effervescent scent meandered through his nose, and the water laved up his body with the tickling kisses of the bubbles.   

Then, like a sigh, he released his hold on his guise and let his body go pliant in the water.  Holding the illusion always required a measure of tension – _like forcing a smile_.  He may have hated what he’d become, but he couldn’t argue with the way his body went loose and relaxed when he dropped the illusion, tail unwinding to drape over the lip of the tub.  With a shift of his shoulders like a contortionist’s maneuver, he unsheathed his wings, stretching them out with a moan of relief that he felt all the way down to his toes.  

[Art by [ Gravesecret](https://gravesecret.tumblr.com/) / [ Reblog it on Tumblr Here](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/172427870308/gravesecret-soo-i-was-commissioned-by-araniaart)]

He allowed himself several minutes of just that: doing nothing but letting the sounds and smells occupy his senses.  Eventually the water level nearly reached the top of the tub and he begrudgingly shut off the spigot with a deft flick of his tail.  He didn’t even have to sit up.  So okay, maybe it had its uses sometimes.

God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a bath in full hot water.  In Brooklyn?  No… any hot water had to be made on the stove, poured into a tub that served double-duty as a kitchen table when the plank was laid across it… 

As he lay back, the liquid roar of the water now quieted into uneven drips, the darkness pressed in.  Suddenly, he _did_ remember the last time he’d had a bath like this:

_He had been permitted use of Master Fairbanks’s private bathroom: a large, decadent thing with hot, running water in the claw-footed tub and fragrant soaps.  It should have been a welcome reprieve from the cold of his cell, or the grueling training regimen that Lukin had run him through earlier, but what had once been a rare treat had been perverted.  Whenever Fairbanks gave him this “reward” it meant one thing: he was expected to join his master afterwards for a feeding.  What should have been a respite was soured with a pending dread for the deed to come.  He wished he was permitted a bath_ after _what was to come instead so he could clean away the lingering sensation of his grasping hands, or to soothe his racing pulse._

_NO!_

Bucky sat bolt upright, eyes flaring open, immediately to be confronted with the grotesque features that now adorned his body.  With a grimace, he resettled, but he couldn’t shake the conditioned expectation that he would _owe_ someone for this luxury.  

He dug his fingers through his hair, focusing on the pleasant rake of his blunted claws over his scalp.  Apparently one good fucking morning was too much to ask for.  

He soaped up a washrag and set to work scrubbing away the grimy buildup of unwanted memories.  Steve wasn’t like that.  Steve wasn’t like Master Fairbanks, and certainly nothing like Lukin, Karpov, or Pierce, who had done away with the pretense of treating him like a person altogether.  There had been no hot baths once the wipes and cryofreeze began.  Steve wouldn’t barge in, even if the door was unlocked.  _He_ _won’t see me like this.  I don’t want to see his face when he realizes that this is the real me now…_  
  
He scrubbed every inch, wrinkling his nose as he worked over his broad wings and his too-sensitive tail that wriggled and curled in on itself reflexively as he soaped it down.  He plucked a plastic-handled nail brush from the basket to clean out the grooves of his arm, under his claws, and even the ridges along his horns.  The shampoo in the basket was even more aromatic than the “bubble bath,” smelling like exotic fruits.  As he worked the lather into his long hair, his tension gradually began to unwind once more.  

He worked over himself until the hot soapy water grew tepid and grey, and finally pulled the plug on the drain and stepped out.  The towel was unbelievably soft and fluffy – had they even improved fucking _towels_ in the future, or was it just because Steve was loaded?  After he spent a little longer than necessary rubbing himself down, enjoying the feeling of the plush cloth over his freshly warmed, clean skin, he secured it around his waist with a deft knot.  
  
He winced at the tak-tak-tak of the claws of his feet against the tile as he crossed the bathroom back over to the vanity, and stared down the pointed-eared, sharp-toothed, horned reflection that glared back at him from the fogged mirror like a goblin from a fairy tale book.

He tore open the new toothbrush from the ridiculous plastic package and squeezed some toothpaste onto the bristles, quickly getting to work at tackling the morning-breath-on-steroids that he had been inflicting on Steve.  Fortunately, whatever was behind his fast healing had also kept his teeth healthy and white despite the fact that dental care had been nowhere on Hydra’s agenda.  
  
Afterwards, he mowed away his new crop of stubble with the insulting safety razor and fascinating shaving cream that sprayed out of a can as a gel before immediately transforming into dense foam.  And if he wasted a good portion of the can testing and playing with the bizarre substance, well, then no one had to know about that. 

He went to go grab his clothing when he realized that the nasty ball in the corner – now damp as well as foul-smelling, was not an option.  He’d need to go fetch some of those new clothes from the living room.  Bucky tightened his concentration and watched his reflection shimmer in the mirror to a close approximation of human before foraying out in search of new duds.


	12. Chapter 12

Steve was halfway through putting away groceries when his phone buzzed his pocket, startling him into dropping the carton of strawberries.  He cursed under his breath, rummaging for his phone to shut off the reminder alarm.  He’d forgotten all about the plans he’d had today with Sam, and hoped that he wasn’t already headed his way.  

Steve’s fingers flew over the keypad as he sent off a hurried message to his friend: _I don’t think I’m going to be able to meet today.  I’m so sorry for the late notice._

Sam’s response came just a moment later: _Why?  U OK man?_

Steve sighed, sweeping his hand across his short bangs.  He had to assume that texts could be intercepted, but he didn’t want to lie to Sam either.   _I’m fine – better than fine actually. Things just suddenly got complicated - in a good way.  Rain check soon and I’ll fill you in, I promise._   

The pause this time was longer.  The three dots appeared, disappeared and appeared again a minute or so later.  _No worries.  Stay safe, man.  I’m here if you need me._

Steve didn’t deserve Sam.  He’d already dragged him all the way to New York to help him on this manhunt that had suddenly been solved.  Now, he had to keep him in the dark a bit longer, ditching him last minute.  Steve owed him _big_ and he could only hope that Sam hadn’t uprooted his life in D.C. for nothing.  

He had just begun to type out something to that affect when the door to the bathroom banged open and all coherent thought fled his mind.  Save for the bath towel stretched taut across his hips, Bucky’s sculpted form was on full display.  He was bigger than the last time he’d seen Bucky naked: wider shoulders and a much heavier muscle mass, and almost entirely devoid of the hair that had once grown thick across his chest, arms and legs. _Yup, definitely still queer._ Steve’s eyes scanned him over, unable to hide it, and settled on the gnarled, demonic arm.  Cleaned up, it shone more like metal, aside from the red, angry scar of the pentagram and the knotty, deep scars that seemed to grow into him like roots of some twisted tree.

Steve swallowed, forcing his eyes up to meet Bucky’s, but the familiar face inflicted a whole new gut-punch of emotion: without the beard and layer of grime he looked less like the hollow, tortured ghost of his friend.  “Hey,” Steve choked out, trying to sound casual. 

Bucky’s face flushed as he gripped the knotted towel at his waist, bare skin still bright pink and soft from its scrub-down.  “Uhm, hey,” Bucky flustered, eyes skirting to Steve before skittering away.  “I just came to get some fresh clothes – if that’s okay? They _are_ for me, right?”  Hesitation flickered in his eyes. 

“Of course!” Steve said a little too brightly.  He had been consolidating Bucky’s provisions into one paper bag, which he grabbed and walked over to him.  “It’s just the basics,” he pressed, not wanting to make Bucky feel like he was accepting charity.  “You look…” he fished for the right words, “like you’re feeling better now?”

Bucky ran his left hand through his damp hair, blowing out his tension with a huff, leaving a faint smile in its wake.  “Yeah – actually… thank you.  That was really damn nice.”

He reached for the sack with his right hand, “I owe you, Steve,” Bucky insisted, brows drawing together earnestly.  “You didn’t have to do this – _any_ of this.”

“You’ve done the same for me,” Steve reminded him as he handed over the bag.  “Till the end of the line, remember?”  

He forced himself to turn around and go back to putting up the last of the groceries.  “But I’m happy to help, Buck.  I can’t even begin to fathom what life has been like for you.”  Now, he couldn’t have looked Bucky in the eyes if he tried.  “I had everyone tripping over themselves to help me after I woke up, and it was still…” he risked a quick glance back, “And I didn’t even have to… I didn’t go through anything like you did.”

When Bucky found the voice to respond, it was gravely with emotion, “Yeah… I’m starting to remember at least.”  A smile flickered on the corner of his lips like a mirage.  “But what happened sure as hell isn’t your fault, okay?  And… it’s not a competition.  I know – I know you lost a lot, Steve.  I’m-” He took a breath, struggling to assemble the words, “I’m glad I’m not alone here.  I don’t know where else I would have gone or who else I could have trusted.  I probably just would have just holed up and hidden away from the world.  Instead, I got a real hot shower and a shave.”  He scrubbed his hand across his smooth chin for emphasis.  

A smile broke over Steve’s face - it was genuine even if it was bittersweet.  “And you’re looking good.”  He gave a short, decisive nod, keeping the tone platonic. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

Bucky clutched the bag to his chest, making a skeptical note in the back of his throat.  “Yeah, well, I’m probably dripping all over your carpet.  I’ll, uh, be out in a few.” Bucky gave Steve a nod and a rusty smile before disappearing back into the guest bedroom.

*

When Bucky emerged, he was dressed in a pair of simple gray sweatpants and a white undershirt, the fingers of his right hand skimming over the soft material.  He carried the damp towel under his arm, wrapped around a bundle of fabric.  “You said you have a machine that washes these?”

“Yeah, there’s a basket in the laundry,” Steve said, putting down his tablet and opening a set of slatted bi-fold doors that revealed a pair of sleek-yet-bulky machines.  Sure enough, a plastic basket with a few sundry pieces of clothing rested on the folding counter.

Bucky eyed the machinery dubiously before dumping his armload into the basket, noting that the dirty clothes from the washroom had already been added to the pile.  “You got a machine to darn your socks, too?” he asked wryly, surprising himself with how easy it was to tease Steve.

“You’re welcome to hand wash your drawers yourself,” Steve shot back.  As if to make a point, Steve upended the basket into the machine, poured in a dallop of liquid soap, and flipped on the switch.  

Bucky hovered behind his shoulders, watching the machine with narrowed eyes, only to take a quick-step back when it began making a churning rumble noise.  It seemed too easy.  Just close the damn thing and clean clothing?  No scrubbing?  No washboards?  Not even a wringer? His eyes darted to Steve, a resigned frown on his face until he turned abruptly and stalked towards one of the couches.

Steve closed the doors to the laundry closet and looked back to Bucky expectantly.  

“So now what?” Bucky groused, suddenly antsy.  Laundry had been the closest thing to a mission on his agenda.  

“That’s up to you,” Steve said, wandering into the living room, “I don’t know if… you want to talk, or…” he gave a shrug, “Anything you want to ask me?”  He might as well have handed Bucky the keys to the conversation.  

Bucky laced his fingers, sitting awkwardly on the couch.  If his tail hadn’t been guised, it would have been flipping around like an irritated cat’s; it _itched_ to move, only adding to his shaken soda bottle nerves.  The accusation erupted out of him spontaneously, “So what the fuck, Steve?  You were supposed to have a happy ending.  You were supposed to marry Peggy.”    

Steve’s expectant look fled from his face, replaced by the same expression Bucky typically saw after a well-placed punch to the gut.  “Whoa!” He held up his hands.  “Jesus, Buck, Peggy and I weren’t even, you know,” he nudged his shoulders in a shrug, “ _officially_ …”

“My memory may be Swiss cheese, but I _remember s_ he wanted to eat you with a damn spoon,” Bucky protested, the words spilling out of his mouth faster than he could even process what he was saying, boiling up from a long-buried reservoir of resentment.  “You were _supposed_ to be the one who lived.” His voice went embarrassingly plaintive on the last note.  “She woulda made you happy.  Instead you crashed your damn plane,” he finished with barely restrained frustration. 

Steve rubbed his face with his palms.  “Bucky…” he groaned.  “What do you mean I was ‘supposed’ to live?  It was _war_ Bucky, no one knew who was going home.” Steve’s eyes darted away, the tick of well-rehearsed Captain Speech edging his voice.  
  
Bucky’s frown deepened.  “ _You_ were.  Hell, it seemed like you were untouchable out there.  I swore at least one of the Howlies would pick up my slack and keep your ass out of the fire.”   He pointed a finger at Steve’s chest, “But you’re changing the subject.  What the hell were you thinking?”  He didn’t know where half of this was coming from until the words were leaving his lips, as if he were possessed by a ghost from the past.  

“I was thinking …” Steve’s voice took on a practiced cadence, “I was thinking that I had to get the bombs in the ice…” But when his eyes found Bucky’s, his face fell into a grimace.  

Bucky’s skeptical frown never flickered.  “Uh huh.  I read the newspaper report.  I saw the damn display at the Smithsonian.  Did you even _try_ to find an out?  I saw you jump off a damn helicarrier  - _twice_ \- in D.C., so I know you know how.”

Steve sat back on the couch, face crystallizing into solemn resignation.  “No,” he said simply.  He chewed the next words in his mouth, then sighed.  “I know how that sounds.  It wasn’t like that, I didn’t _want_ to die.”  The ” _but”_ hung silently in the air.

The combative fire died in Bucky’s voice immediately, smoldering into frustrated confusion.  “You could have had a life, Steve; a _good_ one.  Why couldn’t you see that?”

“I did,” he continued, staring into his lap. “Peggy’s voice was in my ear, her picture there…” he breathed, his voice strained and reedy.  “I could feel her lips still on mine but…” he shook his head, “it just didn’t seem real. Not without you.”

And there it was.  Was that what he wanted to hear?  Why had he so vehemently ferreted this answer out of him?  Bucky shook his head with tight-lipped frown.  “It’s not what I would have wanted, Steve,” he insisted.    

“I know!” he quantified quickly.  “It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t like I was…” he gesticulated with his hands, “I wasn’t planning it.  It wasn’t even a real decision.  Just the ground was coming and it was like I was frozen.” He winced at the poor choice of words. “Like I was just some dumb kid back in Brooklyn.  A skinny, 100 pound kid staring up at this impossibly big future.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers weaving together to keep himself from doing something stupid like thwacking Steve upside his stupid fucking head.  “Well, congratulations.  You got to that future, like it or not.  You just missed the one you wanted by about seventy years.”  

“Did I?” he asked, risking a look up to Bucky.  “Peggy led an amazing life.  She has beautiful children, who am I to say that was wrong?”  He took a breath, and Bucky could _see_ the passion igniting in Steve’s chest. “She deserved better, Buck.  She didn’t deserve to be anyone’s consolation prize.”

“Consolation prize?” Bucky echoed, baffled.  “How do you figure that?  You and she- ” he shook his head before… _oh_.  Flashes of hot, passionate kisses, of roaming hands and his own name said between breathy gasps flooded his mind.  He swallowed thickly, sinking back into the couch.  “You and _me_.” 

_It wasn’t meant to be._

_Didn’t want to drag you down with me._

_He’d be so much better off without me…_

The memories burst forth, swallowing Bucky in a flood of hot touches, seething guilt and burning desire.  Steve: the forbidden fruit.  Steve, his best friend who he’d longed for since he knew what longing was.  Steve had offered him solace in his arms and to quench the supernatural thirst in his loins, but he deserved better than that.  Steve had _earned_ ten times over the best life he could have: of being seen as a hero with the best dame in the world by his side.  He deserved better than him and the life of complications, heartache, and lies that would come with it.  

How could he have forgotten _that_ of all things?

But Steve had never found out what he was turning into.  If he had… well – Bucky’s mind flashed to the Bible and the book on demons now resting on Steve’s shelves – there was probably a good reason Steve hadn’t been the one to bring up their past relationship.  He knew _now_.  

Steve’s voice jerked him away from the abyss.  “She knew,” he admitted. Steve’s eyes were red-rimmed when he looked away.  “I couldn’t lie to her, and after you were gone…” he gave a hopeless shrug.

“She must have hated me,” Bucky winced.  

“No,” he answered simply.  “I don’t think so.  Let’s face it, Peggy’s as sharp as a tack, I think on some level she always knew.”

This conversation was making his body want to erect his spines.  Unable to do so, he settled for funneling that nervous energy into squirming in his seat.  Why had _this_ sealed box of memories decided to pop open _right now_?  He wasn’t remotely equipped to deal with this.  Steve hadn’t even known back then that he was becoming a _demon_.  If he had, how could he have wanted to even touch him?  What if this led into a talk of the present?  Bucky didn’t think he was ready to see the revulsion on Steve’s face.  Time for an abrupt subject change.  Somehow, he managed to scrape up some self-depreciating humor.  “Okay, so _aside_ from playing babysitter to brainwashed assassins, what have you been doing?” 

Steve wrung his hands. “Before Insight, I was considering leaving SHIELD,” he confessed.  “But I didn’t know what I’d do.”

“Well, SHIELD _was_ rotten,” Bucky conceded, “Though they grew outta the SSR, right?  That’s why you were workin’ for them to begin with?  Trying to pick up right where you left off, pretending that hadn’t changed, too?”  Of course he had.  No one to come home to, so why come home at all?  

“Yeah, I suppose that’s exactly what I was doing,” Steve confessed.  “Peggy founded SHIELD after the SSR, and I thought I could just come back and serve.  At first I thought the world had gotten so much greyer,” he gave a sad smile, “but I think I’m just growing up.”

Bucky tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch.  “The more I’m remembering the more bewildering this future seems.  I know how to operate things that Hydra needed me to: I can fly a damn jet, field strip and accurately fire any number of weapons, and navigate advanced security systems, but fuck me if I understand how to use half the things in your kitchen, let alone a cell phone.  I know what a lot of things _are_ , but … I think they made a point to keep me crippled as far as anything I might use to communicate or learn more about the world.”  

Steve fished out a small notebook from his pants pocket.  It was opened and flipped to the just one of many pages of lists of baffling terms:

·I Love Lucy (Television)

·Moon Landing

·Berlin Wall (Up + Down)

·Steve Jobs (Apple)

·Disco

·Thai Food

·Star Wars/Trek

·Nirvana (Band)

·Rocky (Rocky II?)

·Troubleman (Soundtrack)

“I think I recognize like four of those words, including “food”.”  Bucky said as he craned his neck to read Steve’s familiar handwriting.  

“I’m still catching up, but honestly it’s kind of nice not being the only fish out of water anymore.” Steve admitted. “It’s another world, Bucky.  I’m still learning things about day to day life, politics makes my head spin more than usual, and that’s not even counting all the Avengers stuff.”

Bucky shook his head. “It’s really kind of crazy when you think about it: you and me? Two fellas from the old neighborhood, both given these crazy powers, and now here alive and kicking in the same future? Of all the people in the world, ya know?”  Bucky pursed his lips, straining to remember “I used to love reading about the future, didn’t I?  If I close my eyes I can see the covers of these pulp mags and remember the _smell_ of the new books right off the newsstands.  I don’t think what’s out there is much like what was in them, though.  No shiny clothes, spacemen, or flying cars.”  

The dopiest grin had spread across Steve’s face by the time Bucky finished speaking.  “Well, kind of space men,” he held up a finger.  “You know aliens attacked New York?  Just a few years ago.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Okay, what kind of chump do you make me for?  Like another War of the Worlds panic?  Wait –” Mortification hit Bucky like a brick and he covered his face with a groan.  “Shit, I fell for that didn’t I?” 

Steve’s hand over his mouth failed to suppress his laugh.  “Yes, yes you did.”  

It all came back to him in a wash of hilarious embarrassment.  It had been past dark, and he had switched on the radio after finishing up the dishes from dinner.  He could still hear the serious timbre of the radio host’s tone, the thrilled terror that chilled through his bones, and  - despite the apparent threat - the boyish excitement that there were real aliens had overridden reason.   


>   
>  He’d taped up his knuckles with boxing tape, grabbed the baseball bat that he’d used for pick-up games in the street as a teen, and charged towards the door - only to be halted by Steve’s, “C’mon Buck – you’re going to regret this tomorrow morning when you’ve got to be at work by dawn.”
> 
> “Not if there’s not a New York to work in, Steve!”  He’d protested earnestly, not willing to let Steve’s stupid _logic_ extinguish his enthusiasm. 
> 
> “Buck, c’mon, it’s _Halloween_ – it’s a prank!  Isn’t this the time the _Mercury Theater_ comes on?”
> 
> He was too invested now - too late to save face.  If it was a hoax, Steve would be crowing about this for weeks.  But if not, _if not_ – “They’re just across the river in New Jersey! You heard the man!  Are you comin’ with me or not?”
> 
> “Buck, if there were aliens attacking New Jersey, do you really think they’d be reporting it on the news?  No one would know the difference.”  Steve was grinning now.
> 
> “Yeah yeah, yuk it up.  I’ll be the one laughing when you’re griping about missing out on your chance to help send these aliens packing back to Mars.”  
> 
> “Who said I wasn’t coming?” Steve shot right back, his beaten-up shoes already in hand.  

Steve _had_ indeed crowed about it for weeks afterwards.

“Fool me once, punk,” Bucky said with an indignant huff.

Steve leaned forward, eyes wide and earnest.  “No!  I know what it sounds like, but it happened!  The ‘Chitauri’ - there’s a big memorial outside Times Square I’ll have to show you.  Something like a hundred billion dollars in damage to the city.”  Steve frowned, hearing the words spoken to him in harsh, disappointed tones by many people in the countless hearings he’d been in since.  “Unfortunately, it was a serious incident – people died, Buck.  But still – aliens!”

Bucky would have to start one of these notebooks, apparently.  “Aliens are real,” he enunciated carefully, watching Steve’s expression.  Guy couldn’t lie for shit, and he watched his face carefully for the cracks that laughter might slip out of, but no – Steve was fucking _serious_.  But why not?  Energy weapons, super soldiers, _demons…_ were aliens _really_ that much of a stretch?  

Yes.  Yes they were.  An odd thrill tingled through Bucky as the concept sank in.  

“ _Real_ aliens,” He repeated, and despite the damage they’d caused, some of the boyish wonder managed to work into his voice.  “What – I mean -  _damn_ , Steve – tell me about it!  What did they look like?  Were you there?  Did you see them?”  Bucky really hoped Steve hadn’t gotten better at playing pranks in the last seventy years or else he was gonna look like the world’s biggest sucker.  

“Like a giant bug and a skeleton had some kind of weird mutant baby.”  Steve spread out his hands, “And these giant biomechanical Leviathans,” a speck of wonder reflected in Steve’s eyes, too.  “Yeah I was there; I was in the thick of it.”  He shook his head, “Christ, I had been out of the ice for less than a month.  Still reeling from my entire world being washed away by history, and they have me back in the suit fighting aliens from outer space.”

“Wow, I actually wish I’d been there,” Bucky mused, surprising himself.  “Aliens attacking New York – the real deal?  And you there without me watching your six?”  It just didn’t seem right.  “Well, losses aside, you guys must have done all right for yourselves seeing as we don’t have new alien overlords.”

“It was a team effort,” which was the closest to credit Steve would take for nearly anything.  He let the words sit in the air for a minute, “I do wish you were there,” Steve said softly.  “You should have been there.”

“Well, figures: Hydra didn’t thaw me out for the one thing that would have been in their best damn interests that I actually would have wanted to be there for,” Bucky said with a growl. “I mean, you can’t rule the world if aliens have beaten you to the punch.” 

“ _Thaw_?” Steve’s brows narrowed; the puzzle pieces snapping visibly snapping into place in his head.

“Ah… yeah,” Bucky winced.  The least he could do was give Steve some more information – he owed him that much.  “I guess that’s something else we have in common.  I missed out on most of the last seventy years, too.  Probably a blessing the more I think about it, really,” but the wince stayed on Bucky’s face as the frigid cryotank muscled to the front of his memory; how painful thawing each time had been as his blood flowed like shards of glass in sludge through his veins.  The excruciating and terrifying sensation of deadened limbs as parts of him thawed slower than others.  “Hydra froze me between missions.  Guess it was easier than dealing with me long-term.”  He found a loose thread in the weave of the couch and picked at it with the claws of his left hand.  

Steve sat back, his mouth opening and closing with two false starts before words finally worked their way out.  “My god, Bucky, I … Being a prisoner of war was bad enough, but, they just… what? Put you in cold storage like some kind of-”

 _Weapon_.  Steve didn’t have to finish the sentence for Bucky to hear the unspoken implication.  

Steve must have seen the flinch he tried to conceal; he leaned over and placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry. I wish I knew something else to say, other than I should have known.  If I had known, Bucky…”  
  
Bucky’s jaw tensed as he shook his head, “It’s not your fault, Steve.”  Crap, he wasn’t trying to make him feel sad again.  “You were right about the bath chasing away the thaw, though.  I owe you thanks, not blame.  You’re probably the only person in the world I’ve got in my corner.”  

“Always,” Steve emphasized.  

Steve’s earnest expression was too intense to meet for long, making Bucky’s stomach squirm until his shoulders tucked in with a conceding shrug.  Steve meant what he was saying, even if the earnest bastard didn’t know what he was getting himself into.  

_I shouldn’t be here.  He’s too good for me.  I can’t keep up this deception that I’m his friend – that I’m a good person – that I’m even a PERSON!_  
  
Steve mercifully broke the tension, pulling Bucky from his spiral with a clap to his shoulder “Hey wait – I _can_ show you the aliens! let me introduce you to this thing called YouTube.”

Bucky knew a subject change when he saw it, but it was a welcome one.  

Despite at least three occasions that Bucky wanted to pop Steve on the shoulder for blatantly risky maneuvers that were _absolutely unnecessary_ under the circumstances, the footage of the battle was positively mesmerizing.  Steve hadn’t been kidding: real fucking aliens had attacked the city not a few miles from where they sat watching videos on Steve’s tablet.  Here he was: in the future with the man he’d grown up with, watching a color newsreel in Steve’s very own fancy Brooklyn apartment on a screen the size of a hardback book about a real-life alien attack on the city.  The revelation, the _improbability_ of it all shot a buzz of excitement into him that hadn’t flowed through his blood in seventy years.  Questions about their anatomy segued into a primer on Google and Wikipedia and how Bucky could _literally_ access any information he could even imagine asking from the handheld phone Steve had bought for him.  It was amazing, it was _overwhelming_ , and it was a perfect excuse for Bucky to retreat back to his bedroom to experiment with his phone’s capabilities for the rest of the day.  He was quickly running out of the energy it required to pretend to be a person – and not just his guise.  

The reservoir of information available at his fingertips held Bucky captive for the rest of the day.  One tiny device gave him access to information beyond the entirety of the Brooklyn Public Library had to offer back in the day.  A brief history overview segued into bittersweet research into the lives of the rest of the Howling Commandos.  After that, it took at least three hours of brainlessly watching cat videos on YouTube to numb the complex mix of pride, loss, and the yawning scale of time that Hydra had robbed from him.  

*

The television tuned in to a news station provided a pleasant buzz of background noise as Steve filled the air with the aroma of cooking food.  Mercifully, the news cycle seemed to be finally losing interest in incident in D.C., but that didn’t mean that Steve wasn’t keeping an ear out for any sudden developments.  Hopefully, Natasha would key him on anything important before it hit the evening news, but Steve wasn’t going to take any chances.  Natasha had more than her share of trouble from the fallout.  

Steve had just finished preparing steak and potatoes with vegetable stir-fry when Bucky emerged from the bedroom.  Despite his intermittent appearances over the past few days, Steve still wasn’t quite used to the fact that the door would open and _Bucky_ would suddenly be there.  

 “Smells good,” Bucky croaked tentatively, still moving around the apartment more like a feral cat than a roommate.   Which, okay, that comparison might have been taking into account when he decided to cook something aromatic to lure him out from his hiding spot.  

Steve greeted him with a friendly smile.  “It’ll be ready in five,” he offered, pointing towards the fridge.  “Grab a couple of beers?”  He was endlessly thankful Bucky was here, and Steve had spent the last few days building trust and sticking to his promises.  He didn’t even knock when Bucky’s door was locked.  He was always open to answering questions and did his best to predict his needs before he had to ask; he promised honesty and he gave it. 

But he knew it couldn’t go on like this forever.  Eventually they would have to have ‘the talk’ - how they going to handle Bucky’s situation long-term: both practically and legally.  He wanted to wait until Bucky was comfortable enough with him to know he would be honest and put Bucky’s needs first, but didn’t want to put it off so long it might damage Bucky’s credibility in any future proceedings.  “Hope you’re hungry,” he offered up.  He’d barely been paying attention to news, that is until Bucky stopped dead halfway to the fridge, his eyes snapping to the screen and going as wide as if he’d just seen a ghost.   
  
_“Michael Sam drafted by the St. Louis Rams, becoming the first openly gay player ever drafted – there is the emotional moment when he got the word with his boyfriend.  But Sam almost wasn’t picked – and he’s using that as motivation…”_  
  
And there – right on the television – a man embraced and passionately kissed another man.  

Bucky’s jaw dropped. 

Steve grew quiet, focusing more on Bucky’s reaction than the football player.  “Lots has changed,” he offered after a moment, offering Bucky a plate piled high with a thick steak, baked potato, and steaming buttered veggies. 

Bucky absently took the plate, his eyes rooted to the screen until the news story finally moved on.  He shook his head, bewildered, turning back to Steve.  “He’s… _queer_.”  Bucky gestured to the screen.  “Not to mention a black fellah with a white one.  Kissing – right there on the news.  And… they’re not worried about being arrested?”  

Part of Steve was relieved this came up organically.  “It’s not illegal anymore,” he offered, setting down his own plate and sitting down.  He clicked off the TV for dinner.  “Being queer that is.  I’m not exactly an expert, but times have changed, huh?”

Bucky shadowed Steve to take a seat, open amazement on his face.  “Looks like a lot of folks still aren’t happy about it, but-” Bucky shook his head, blinking several times, “That’s a world of difference from being scared of getting blue carded, or arrested, or your ass kicked… or institutionalized…”  He swallowed, moving the food around on his plate a little with his fork before taking a bite of the potato.  

“Whenever some people want equal treatment, those in power feel threatened,” Steve said. “But we’ve come a long way.”  It used to be so different: dangerous, even.  Even being Captain America wouldn’t have shielded him from public shame - if not legal persecution.  Regardless, Steve had spent several sleepless nights wondering how his life might have played out if things had gone differently.  If he had been more willing to take risks for his _own_ account.  “Can even get married now,” he added too eagerly, suddenly self conscious that he shoe-horned in that in.

Bucky’s eyes tore off of his plate to fix on Steve’s.  “No shit?” he spoke around the mouthful of steak.  He shook his head, sitting back and studying him for a moment, expression going from skeptical, to surprised, and finally overwhelmed.  “Married.  Two fellas?”  

“Or two ladies,” Steve corrected gently. 

Bucky, swallowed, twirling the knife in his left hand without seeming to realize he was doing it.  Bucky’s jaw worked, a familiar flicker of shame finally landing on his face.  “But… it’s a sin, isn’t it?”  

Steve used chewing around a large piece of steak as an excuse to give himself a moment to think.  Bucky wasn’t pulling his punches with the hard questions.  “There’s debate about that,” he said honesty with a small shrug.  “But, there are a lot of things the Bible says are sinful that people do all the time.  It’s why we’re human, and why you ask for forgiveness.”  

Steve’s faith had been strengthened, and certainly transformed, since he was a kid.  War will test anyone’s Belief, and ever since the serum he’d been expected to take on the wars of a thousand men.  But he still found himself turning to God when he felt at his lowest, and thankfully a priest willing to listen wasn’t hard to find in the City.  “It makes more sense to me that a two thousand year old book might have been mistranslated than God being sore over people loving each other.”

Bucky chewed pensively for a few minutes, his expression inscrutable. “Did you ask for forgiveness for what we did?” he finally asked, his eyes fixed on his plate. 

“Yes,” he answered honestly.  “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again if I had to do it over.”

Bucky shook his head tightly, a frown on his face, “But askin’ for forgiveness: that means you think you did something you shouldn’t have, doesn’t it?  That you’re supposed to try not to do again.”  Bucky violently sliced off another chunk of meat.  “So don’t give me that bullshit. I get it!  Always a damn martyr.  Even willing to commit a sin if someone needs it.” 

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve snapped back, failing to keep his tone as even as he wanted to.  “I would do it again, I _know_ I would do it again, because it wasn’t about me being a martyr, it was about me being…” he stabbed his steak with his fork in frustration, “selfish.”

Bucky jerked his head up, staring back at him with knitted brows and pursed lips as if Steve had just said that the Yankees roster was now filled by particularly clever dogs.  “You’re the furthest thing from selfish.” Bucky grumbled reluctantly.  “You had a hard enough time eating one share of rations back in the war when you were supposed to be eating double – _or triple_.  You’d have stood in front of a punch headed for a guy twice your size if you thought he didn’t deserve it.”  

“Exactly,” Steve pressed.  “So imagine how selfish I felt when I could have potentially disappointed my own God because I wanted to be with you?” He gave him THAT look, daring him to challenge him.

Bucky scowled, watching Steve closely as he took another bite of his precisely-sliced steak.  “But… you _do_ think that the way things have changed is good?”  He paused, fork hovering over the plate.  “Do people know about you?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to hide the shame in his eyes.  “No,” he said after a moment.  “I mean, it just hadn’t come up.  I don’t like to talk about my personal life.”  He knew it sounded like an excuse, but he honestly didn’t understand why people were so obsessed with celebrities’ private lives: before he was Captain America no one gave a damn about Steve Rogers’s love life.  Especially most of the dames in NYC.

“Hm,” Bucky frowned, expression darkening.  “You didn’t tell anyone you were queer back in the day, either.  You sure it’s not the same reason?” he challenged.  “I mean, I get it.  Times may have changed, but that doesn’t mean everyone has.  They’re certainly makin’ a big deal about that ball player, and he’s no _Captain America.”_   

“It’s not because I’m ashamed,” Steve insisted.  “I just don’t want people focusing on that.  You’re right - it’s still a Thing.  The last thing I want people to talk about is who I’m dating.”  He shrugged and stuffed some more food in his mouth, “But I haven’t been dating anyone so it didn’t seem important.”

Bucky stopped dead.  “Why the fuck _not_?”  He set his fork down on the table, “Because of Peggy?  Because of _me_?  For Chrissakes, Steve, were you just going to resign yourself to celibacy?” 

“No, I wasn’t saying I’d never try again,” Steve’s memory briefly flashed back to those first meetings with Sam, or even those intense, brutal sparring matches with Rumlow that now left him feeling betrayed and disgusted with himself.  “It’s only been a few years.  People don’t seem to remember that sometimes.  They’ve grown up with ‘Captain America’ - the ageless, perfect soldier.”  Steve clenched his jaw.  “I’m not some kind of mythic figure, Bucky; I’m barely thirty years old!”  He tried to calm himself. “Your memory may be Swiss cheese, but mine’s staggeringly clear.  I woke up and everything and everyone I’ve ever known is either gone or … so damned different.  I didn’t just lose you and Peggy… I lost Howard, Col. Phillips, all the Howlies, all my peers, everything.  A man out of time, lost in some future world surrounding by future strangers who think they know everything about me.”

Bucky flinched as Steve listed everything that had been taken from him before finally letting his tension out in a long, hissing sigh, and picked up his fork again.  “C’mon, I’m sure not _everyone_ sees you as a damn mascot.  The Howlies got over that pretty damn fast when you woke everyone up screaming bloody murder over that “snake” that got into your bedroll turned out to be a harmless salamander.  What about that guy from D.C. – the one with the metal wings?  I thought I might have seen him hanging out here…” he added under his breath.  
  
Steve tried to hide the blush he knew was forming when Bucky mentioned Sam.  “Sam?”  There was no use lying to Bucky.  “Let’s just say timing isn’t my strong suit.  Not that I even know if he’d be interested.”

Bucky stirred the food around on his plate with a grimace for a few moments before he shoveled a forkful of the vegetables into his mouth – and promptly froze.  His face pinched like he’d bitten into a lemon before he swallowed reluctantly, then smacked with a look of sheer distaste and chased it with a long swig of beer.  “What the fuck-“  He turned an immediately critical eye on the pile of offending vegetables before picking out a sliver of a pale orange rutabaga between two claws of his left hand.  He sniffed it critically before turning his offended look on Steve _flicked_ it at at him.  Bucky’s aim was as precise as it ever was, the sliced tuber landing squarely on Steve’s nose.  “ _That_ ” Bucky proclaimed, “is _disgusting._ How were you eating that?”

Steve’s face broke into a huge shit-eating grin.  “You always hated rutabagas.”  He was so relieved his little ‘test’ had worked.  If Steve had harbored any lingering doubts about his identity, no matter how perfectly a clone, robot, or spy could have studied Bucky for some kind of a long game, Steve couldn’t wrap his head around anyone being able to know just how much Bucky _hated_ the turnip-imposters.  That wasn’t exactly the kind of information you could find in a Smithsonian exhibit.  And beyond that, even if Bucky said he didn’t feel like the old Bucky and could only remember snippets of his old life, he was still the same person underneath it all with the same likes and dislikes – even if he didn’t know it.  

Bucky just blinked owlishly at him for a moment before shaking his head with a ghost of a smile, “I thought the veggies smelled funny.  Ugh.  You don’t wanna know some of the things I had to eat over the years, but all of ‘em were better than _that_.”  

*  
  
Another day bled into two, bled into three and Bucky was going fucking _crazy._ While spacious compared to the cells in Hydra, and a hell of a lot better company, the apartment was beginning to feel like a prison.  He hadn’t left, hadn’t spoken with anyone save for Steve, and worst of all, he was starting to get _hungry_.  He had woken sharply from a wet dream the last time he slept - more than a day ago – swearing he could still feel the phantom sensation of hands running over his body and sporting a raging erection.  A cold shower had substituted for taking the edge off manually; he knew how keen Steve’s hearing was.  Besides, it wasn’t mission-critical; not yet.  Still, that didn’t mean that Bucky was ready to look Steve in the eye.  Not after what they’d done in Bucky’s dream – memory? – or the risk of his pheromones ramping up in an enclosed space.  

Steve was probably wondering what he’d done to piss him off with the way he’d been avoiding him since then.   

He was _hungry_ , but he was also normal-starving, and he could only hide in his room for so long.  Slinking out of his room, Bucky stole into the kitchen to see what he could do to solve the more immediate problem.  He pulled open the icebox – _no, refrigerator_ – and peered inside.  Steve had told him he was welcome to eat whatever he wanted, but the idea of taking food from a master’s home that wasn’t being presented to him was nearly enough to send him fleeing back to his room.  

Bucky closed his eyes, trying to take steadying breaths to slow his racing heart.  

_This is okay.  Steve said it was OK.  It’s not a trap._

Right as Bucky was reaching for one of the many leftover pizza boxes, the sound of the lock clicking out of place broke the silence, and Bucky whirled to see Steve striding through the door a moment later.  Back to his daily routine it seemed - he obviously just came back from his morning ‘jog’.  His skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat and his incredibly tight athletic shirt was damp and clung to him like paint.

Bucky ground his teeth as he tried and failed to wrest his eyes away from Steve.  That look was criminal, and to make matters worse, his elevated body temperature imbued the heavy musk of Steve’s sweat into the apartment like potpourri.  Was he _trying_ to drive him crazy?  Bucky wanted to _lick_ that sweat off of him.   

Fucking _great_.   
  
“Oh hey,” Steve said blithely, finishing up a drink of water from his bottle and hefting a heavy-weight punching bag over his shoulder like it was a duffle bag.

Bucky slammed the fridge closed harder than he meant to.  “You went out?” Bucky asked stupidly, his tone flat.  It shouldn’t make him mad.  It would be _more_ suspicious if Steve suddenly started holing up in his apartment for days on end than if he went back to his normal routine.  But with how stir-crazy Bucky was getting, it only sent a new flare of irritation crawling up his spine. 

“I run a few miles in the mornings, usually, I wrote a note!” Despite looking like Adonis, his voice had the same twinge of a wince that that stubborn, skinny, blonde kid did in his dreams.  
  
True to his word, a folded piece of yellow paper with a “Back in an hour” and a sketched smiley face was propped up next to a bowl of fruit.  Bucky huffed, irritated at himself.  A note.  Fuck, he must have been out of it if he hadn’t spotted something that damn obvious out of place in the environment.  He was slipping.  And that was dangerous. 

“Is, that ok?” Steve asked, more concerned, as he set the bag down.  “I’m not used to being inside so long.”

“Yeah.  Of course.  It’s fine,” Bucky clipped; he wouldn’t miss something that obvious again.  “And I don’t like it either - though I can’t exactly say I’m not _used_ to it.  But, you know, you said that we should lay low for a bit.”  He shouldn’t be griping, but it was better to lean into the irritation rather than letting his boiling emotions vent in the _wrong_ direction.  Fuck, why had he even waited so long and put himself into this position?  It was only going to get worse from here.  Oh, that’s right, because Steve thought that he should be laying low.  Well, it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to keep a low profile when he needed to.  

“Well,” Steve said, enunciating carefully.  “I’m not your jailer.  I just didn’t want to scare you away.”  He made his way to join Bucky in the kitchen, and Bucky nearly swallowed his tongue when he caught Steve’s eyes lingering over him.   
  
_Shit._ Had his pheromones already started to get to him?

Bucky swallowed thickly, eyes flicking up and down Steve’s muscled-yet-deceptively-lithe build.  No no no – getting closer wasn’t going to help either of them.  Not with Steve looking, and smelling, like he did.  Coming off of his workout, Steve’s blood was pumping and Bucky _knew_ how easy it was to get worked up like that.  If Steve got himself worked up, it was going to get Bucky’s pheromones going, too – if they weren’t already.  Maybe he wanted Steve, but not like this; not out of a lust-induced madness.  Bucky sidled around the island, trying to keep his distance.  
  
“If you’re ready to have that talk, we can have that talk.” Steve said.  
  
“What talk?” Bucky blurted, voice tinged with suspicion.  

“This can’t go on forever,” Steve said with a helpless tone.  “We have to figure out our next course of action: how to fix this, how this is going to go down.”

Bucky immediately bristled, a snarl curling his lip.  The words sprang to his lips without checking in with his brain.  “You planning on turning me in?”  

“No!” Steve said quickly, looking insulted.  “No, nothing like that!  I just mean…”   He gave Bucky a grimace, “We could get ahead of this.  There are still some good people in high places we could go talk to who could spin-”

On some level, the little rational part of Bucky’s mind knew Steve was talking sense.  He had to have some kind of strategy, some _plan_.  He couldn’t just hide here forever – someone would find him, whether that was Hydra trying to take him back or put him down, or the feds.  Instead, panic took the reins.  Another cell, another captor.  His wrists bound, his body immobile as a knife that caught the light _all wrong_ flayed open the armored plates of his shoulder, stinging like acid.  

“No!”  Bucky’s breaths came in short pants.  “Don’t want to go back!  You – you want to lock me up again?!”  

“No!”  Steve stepped closer, putting his palms up in what should have seemed like a calming motion. “Hey hey, we don’t have to talk about this now.”  He gave a defeated huff.  “We can just keep…laying low.”

But Bucky’s eyes were wide and staring at nothing, his head still shaking as he kept backing up until he collided with a wall.  “Stay back!”  He snapped, voice strangled with panic.  

When Steve finally halted his approach, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around himself.  

_Get yourself together!  What kind of useless asset are you who can’t even maintain his composure?!_

Breathe.  Three more breaths.  Four.  

“I’m sorry, Master,” he murmured quietly, “I’m putting you in danger.”

“Hey!” Steve’s voice was surprisingly firm, though when his head jerked up at the tone, Steve looked horrified.  “Don’t say that,” he pleaded, stepping back.  “I’m not your Master, and you’re not putting me in danger, OK?”

Steve put some more space between them.  “I’m not going to force you to do anything.”

Bucky’s heart was a hummingbird in his chest as he stared open-mouthed at Steve for a long moment before blinking rapidly.  “I’m sorry – I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight,” Bucky wheezed, shoving off of the wall and digging his left hand into his hair, tugging hard at the roots. He had to leave before he did something he was really going to regret.  “I need to get out of here - I need to clear my head.”

He started to head for the front door before stopping mid-stride, blinking down at himself and realizing only then that he was only dressed in a pair of sweats.   
  
_Stupid! Do you want to get us both killed going out looking like this?  Your arm exposed for the world to see?_  
  
He changed course, heading for his room.  “Need to get changed,” he muttered to himself.  

“….changed?” Was all Steve managed to get out before Bucky slammed the door behind him.   
  
*  
  
Steve sighed as the door to Bucky’s room closed, throwing up a wall between them.  He wanted to follow after him and apologize, but Steve knew that he needed to offer him some space; Bucky wasn’t behaving rationally now.  

It was always different, depending on the person, but he’d seen this kind of thing before: with Sam and his soldiers in the VA, with Peggy and her feeble, ever-weakening grip on reality, and even with Tony since the incident in New York. 

It broke his heart all the same to see the cracks in the façade that he knew Bucky must have been carefully maintaining.  Of course he was hurting, of _course_ he was nursing deeper wounds than Steve could even guess at from his time with Hydra.  But all he could do right now was offer him some space.  

No.  That wasn’t true.  He owed it to Bucky to be doing more to help on his end.  

He pulled up some of the digitized files on his StarkPad that had been publicly decrypted after the SHIELD/Hydra Information Dump, and began poring through ones that had been flagged with potentially relevant keywords.  But try as he might, Steve couldn’t focus.  His eyes skimmed over the same paragraphs three or four times, not registering what he’d just read.  Instead, his mind was rooted to the terrified look in Bucky’s eyes as he cowered from _him_ in his kitchen.  As he called him _master_.  

When Bucky slipped out of his room about half an hour later, his attempts at reading were immediately forgotten as the breath caught in his throat, his chest tightened up with that old, familiar heartache.  Bucky looked like a different person than the frantic, disheveled man earlier that morning.  He was dressed as sharply as he ever had when he’d dressed up for a night on the town back before the war.  Conscious decision or not, the clothes he wore were a perfect marriage of vintage and modern: a simple, crisp jacket over a dark blue button-up shirt and dark slacks, a classic fedora perched on his head.   But the hunch to his shoulders and the hangdog expression on his face dispelled the illusion of the confident Bucky from Steve’s memories even more than a pair of holes marring the slightly-shabby hat.  

It didn’t matter; Bucky looked amazing - still as handsome as ever, even if it was in a different way.   
  
Immediately, Steve realized what Bucky was going to do, and hated himself for the twisted feeling it gave him in his gut.  _That_ was the last thing he wanted Bucky to do, but there was no way he could dare ask him NOT to without looking like a complete hypocrite.  

He knew this had to come up eventually.

Steve wanted desperately to be the one to give Bucky what he needed.  But he couldn’t.  He couldn’t even ask, he realized, without it seeming like a test.  

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Bucky murmured, “I’m not-” he gestured awkwardly as words failed him.  Instead, he twisted his face into a wince and sighed, starting over: “I’ll be careful, I promise.” 

Steve _had_ to let him go.  He got to his feet and walked over, unable to keep his eyes from lingering.  He forced the lump in his throat down and reached in his pocket, fishing for something.

“Here,” he said, unable to articulate anything more eloquent.  “It’s the key to the apartment,” he said after a moment, catching the confused look on Bucky’s face.

Bucky plucked the key out of his hands, turning it over in his gloved hands before slipping it into a pocket.  He held Steve’s eyes, scrutinizing his face before swallowing and nodding.  “Thanks,” He said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.  “You sure you want me to come back?”

Steve held Bucky’s eyes, his voice unwavering, “I always want you to come home.”  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://arania.kamiki.net/misc/fanfics/tasteslikekeys_demonbucky04.jpg)  
>  This AMAZING piece of title card artwork by the amazing  
> [tasteslikekeys](http://tasteslikekeys.tumblr.com/)!  
> [ Reblog it on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/172541626593/tasteslikekeys-my-half-of-an-art-trade-with)  
> [](http://arania.kamiki.net/misc/fanfics/tasteslikekeys_doodles.jpg)  
>   
> And adorable preliminary sketches + cute as hell chibis!  
> [ Full size on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/172623550153/tasteslikekeys-some-exploratory-thumbs-fart)  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Happy 100th Birthday, Steve! Have a Steve-focused chapter! :3 )

The front door banged closed like a gunshot, Bucky’s sudden departure leaving the apartment with the silence and emptiness of a vacuum. 

It was only natural that Bucky might need some space.  He’d been irritable before he left; Steve had probably crowded him too much.  Even if Steve only had an inkling of what he’d been through, forcing himself into Bucky’s space was probably the last thing either of them needed right now.  He needed to prove to Bucky that he was allowed to make his own decisions.  

Steve stared at the closed door for a few moments past the point of pathetic until he channeled his energy into cleaning up the dishes.

Being left behind while Bucky hit the town was a feeling Steve could have gone without reliving.  Bucky had always enjoyed going out more than Steve had.  Before the war, Steve had often blamed his health issues.  Other times he’d skirted closer to the truth and told Bucky that a fella could only watch his friend having all the fun for so long.  Truthfully, he could only put up with watching girls swoon over Bucky for so long without risking revealing his own desires.  Watching Bucky hit the dance floor like he was made of music had left Steve wishing his drawings could convey the art that was Bucky in movement.  

_It’s like I’m 20 all over again.  You think I’d be used to it by now.  Maybe I should have said something.  He was hungry; maybe I_ should _have offered –_

No.  He was being selfish.  He was being _jealous_.  

Would pressing Bucky into something sexual before he even remembered the depths of their relationship seem too much like what those bastards at Hydra had forced him to do?  Bucky had called him his _master_ for Chrissakes – that was seven flavors of uncomfortable.  _Could_ Bucky even say no?  No matter how he tried to work out in his brain, there was a power dynamic here that made him uncomfortable.

Besides, what had their relationship even been during the war?  An offer of convenience?  Of protection?  Complicated.  Even during the height of it, Bucky had been self-conscious and reluctant.  Maybe what Steve had seen as the start of a relationship was just a temporary fix for Bucky until he could find a cure.  

How much of it did Bucky even remember?  

He needed to be there for his friend – whatever he needed him to be.  He needed to find a way to reassure Bucky that whatever choice he made – to be with him or other people – was OK.  No matter how that made Steve feel.  

A plate broke in half between his hands and Steve let out an exasperated sigh.  

What he needed to do was stop stewing.  He had to do _something_ instead of just waiting around for Bucky to return like a war widow.  

He looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt and wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor emanating from his armpits.  What he needed was a shower.  

*

The steady hiss of the shower and warm water running in rivulets over his muscles was more of a relief to Steve’s bundled nerves than he had expected.    

Bucky would be back.  They’d fought before – often getting on each others’ last nerve back in the 40s when they shared a roof.  Bucky stomping off to simmer elsewhere was nothing new, even if Bucky couldn’t remember that.  He always came back in a better mood than he left.  If anything, Steve should be relieved that he went out to blow off some steam.  

He just needed to not think about how Bucky was going about it.

Not that now was any different than then.  It’s just this time around, Steve knew it was going to be with other men.

No – he _wasn’t_ going to think about that.  Not going to think about the expressions on Bucky’s face when he got what he needed… would it be the same face he’d made when they had shared a room – and each others’ bodies – in Leszno?  That was a memory that Steve had revisited more times than he cared to admit: Bucky appearing fresh from a shower wearing just the towel – _much like he had a few days ago -_ and it had taken nearly all of his considerable willpower to not attempt to recreate that memory then and there.  

To not still Bucky’s concerns with a kiss.  To not press their bodies together and feel the tension drain from Bucky.  To not give that firm, _perfect_ ass a squeeze before picking him up like the once-larger man weighed nothing and spread him before him on the bed.  

To taste his cock on his tongue and dissolve Bucky’s words into begging moans.  

Steve’s blood rushed downwards, filling his cock in a powerful kick of desire.  A blessing and a curse of the serum was his libido’s _enthusiasm_.  And _persistence_.  He clenched his hand into a fist around the loofa, preparing himself to once again muscle through an uncomfortable erection, but as he scrubbed away the sweat and grime from his morning workout, the realization dawned on him that for the first time in days he was alone in the house: away from keen hearing and brittle nerves.  He didn’t have to turn on the cold water.  

Maybe Bucky being out of the house for a few hours could be a good thing for both of them.  His hand snaked downwards, brushing over the sparse hair that led from his belly button down to his dick.  

Steve let his eyes shutter closed, let his back press against the cold tile.  His fingers wrapped delicately around the length of his shaft, stroking himself at first with just the pads, conjuring the scene back to his mind with photographic recall.  

_He could taste the soap still clinging to Bucky’s shower-warmed skin that steamed in the cold room.  He could feel each flutter of muscles as Steve’s lips tickled his hips as he brought himself closer to Bucky’s impatiently twitching erection.  The interest and trust in Bucky’s eyes as he looked up before he let himself taste Bucky for the first time._

_It was salty and a bit bitter, but it was_ Bucky _._

Even the memory of his precome on his tongue was enough to make Steve’s cock jerk in his hand.

_The rakish grin had dropped from Bucky’s face as Steve had worked his lips further down his girthy shaft, muscling past his gag reflex with sheer determination until Bucky’s eyes were rolling back in his head and his hips bucked against him.  His body went pliant and the pulse through his cock pounded hard against Steve’s tongue when Steve pressed a spit-slicked finger into his hole.  Then two…_

Steve abandoned the loofah and moved his other hand around behind him, his index finger pressing against his own tight ring of muscle.  Unabashedly, Steve moaned out loud.    

The memory of taking Bucky apart with his mouth and his fingers never failed to get him where he wanted to go.  But now, imagination began to warp the scene, leading him off through a new door of _possible_ that he had been scared to open before.  

_Steve’s hands now trailed down hard muscles, defined abdominals and thick thighs that quivered with each hot exhale Steve breathed over his groin.  Only sparse hair graced the body of the man spread out beneath him - tight and smooth, as if carved from stone - but long, wavy hair pooled around his head.  Bucky gasped with darkened eyes, flushed cheeks; to stifle himself, his teeth dug into his swollen red lips.  That wouldn’t do – Steve surged upwards, chasing Bucky’s mouth with a kiss that freed those lips from the bite of his own teeth._

_Bucky’s body rolled beneath him, hot cock pressing up against Steve’s stomach, leaving a moist trail of pre-come smeared around his belly button as they ground against each other needy and –_ OH yes – Steve stroked himself harder.  

_Bucky was already open and loose for him when Steve reached down to touch him.  Already moaning for Steve’s cock.  He knew how tight it would feel around him – he dredged up that perfect slice of memory from familiar storage.  But this time, as Bucky slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders to brace himself, claws dug into his back – hard enough to leave marks – and –_

The orgasm crashed over Steve sudden enough to punch a surprised “Oh!” out of Steve.  He fell forward, bracing himself against the tiles of the shower as the ripples of zinging pleasure buffeted him.  

_Well_.  Steve swallowed, wrenching the water pressure back up as he sheepishly angled the shower head to clear away the viscous stripe he’d painted on the tiled wall rather than hitting the drain.  _That was… unexpected_.  

 

Despite the fact that Bucky had been gone for _maybe_ two hours, Steve still found himself checking his phone for missed messages immediately after stepping out of the shower.  There was nothing from Bucky – which was fine! – but there was one from Sam: _I’m hitting up the Red Rooster at 2 today – you interested?_

Steve ran a hand through his short bangs.  That sounded perfect – but should he leave the apartment empty?  What if Bucky came back and he wasn’t here? 

Steve could virtually hear Sam’s reaction to his overwrought concerns: _You think your boy would be happy to know you sat up and waited for him like a teenager with a curfew?  He managed on his own for weeks before coming to see you.  Leave a note, man - he has a damn key._

Clenching his jaw resolutely, Steve typed out a response: _I’ll see you there._

*

A forty five minute trip uptown found him at the restaurant right on time.  Inside, Steve found the perfect marriage of a speakeasy straight out of the twenties and a modern, upscale kitchen.  Colorful, vibrant artwork hung on the walls could have kept Steve’s attention all afternoon had Sam’s grinning face and small wave not pulled him over to a quiet table tucked into the restaurant’s corner.  A live band played jazz music just loud enough to keep conversations private. 

“Good to see you, Sam – sorry I’ve been out of touch.  This place looks great!”  He did the right thing coming here, right?  What if Bucky got into trouble on his own?  

“Yeah, when I got this place recommended from three different people I figured I had to check it out.  You know they teach cooking classes here to people in the neighborhood?  And all the art is by locals – I figured you’d like it.”  Sam pursed his lips as Steve folded and unfolded his paper napkin.

“Can’t wait.”  Steve attempted a normal smile.  What if Hydra found Bucky and Steve was too far across town if he called for help?  

 “Alright.  So tell me why you’re so distracted.”  

Steve opened his mouth to assure Sam he was wrong, but the moment he met Sam’s eyes he dropped the pretense.  “No, you’re right.  I didn’t want to say anything over the phone, but I found him.”  
  
Sam stared back at him, “What?  You can’t just open with that!  Did he come after you?  Is this a lead?  Do we need to move?  You gotta warn a guy!”  
  
“What?  No, Sam, he came to _me_ , he’s – ” Steve glanced around the restaurant, but all the other tables seemed legitimately engrossed in their own conversations, “- he’s staying with me.”

Sam wet his lips, speaking slowly, “That sounds awfully convenient, Steve.  So, what?  He just showed up at your door with a suitcase looking for a couch to crash on?”  
  
“Not _exactly_." It was a duffel bag. "Sam – he knew me.  He’s _remembering!_ ”

Sam took a long breath, slid his menu aside and placed his palms flat on the table.  “Steve.  I know this guy meant a lot to you, OK?  But you’ve got a big Bucky-shaped hole in your defenses, and you’ve gotta play this more careful than that.  We don’t even know if this _is_ your guy, or if he’s still acting under orders.”  
  
“it’s _him_.  I’d stake my life on it, Sam,” Steve said firmly.  “I already have.  He’s been staying with me for a week now, and nothing’s happened.”

“A _week_?!”  Sam sent his eye skyward and ran a hand across his short hair.  “Alright, you better start at the beginning, because right now, you _gotta_ know how this is sounding.”

*  
Sam sat back, sliding his half-eaten crispy bird sandwich towards Steve, who gladly confiscated it.  “So, assuming I take all of this at face value – which I’m not saying I am - you’ve got yourself all the problems of a traumatized POW, a torture victim, _and_ a fugitive all rolled up into one package.   And that’s not even touching the whole – you know –” Sam raised his pinkie fingers beside his head in a pantomime of horns “- D-word.”

Steve stopped mid-bite of the remains of Sam’s sandwich, “It’s not his fault, Sam.  None of it is.”  
  
“Look, I’m not saying it is, but it doesn’t make any of this any easier – for him _or_ for you.  And you say he’s just what?  Running around Brooklyn hitting up farmers’ markets or something?  Alone?”  

“He’s not a threat.” Steve insisted.  It didn’t matter that shopping was probably the last thing on Bucky’s agenda right now; Bucky’s _dietary needs_ wasn’t something Sam needed to deal with on top of everything else.  Even Steve was having a hard enough time with that. 

“How do you know?  Has he had any problems with flashbacks?  Bursts of rage?  Has he ever seemed lost?  What about heightened anxiety?”

“No.”  Steve said firmly, but his face ticked to the side with a wince, “Well, I can’t say for certain; he’s spent a lot of time in the spare room.  I’ve been trying not to crowd him too much.  And of course he’s anxious – he’s got every right to be, though.  There really are people out there looking for him.”  
  
“Uh huh, and he’s out there wandering around Brooklyn?”  Sam’s mouth twisted to the side, a brow arching accusatorily.  “Even if he’s not a threat, what if he’s targeted?  What if there’s collateral damage?”

Steve leaned back, crossing his arms.  “I’m not his jailor, Sam.  You think that’s what he needs right now?”  
  
“Maybe.  Steve, he did killpeople.  On the highway, on the helicarriers-” 

Steve’s jaw set.  “Hydra killed people.  He was the weapon they used to do it.” 

Sam blew out a long breath, edging his glass of Coke in a slow circle.  “Okay.  Look man, I’m just trying to play devil’s advo – no, scratch that.  I’m trying to give you another perspective here you might be too compromised to consider.  But honestly?  If half of what you’re saying is true, I can’t imagine how he’s dealing with what they put him through.  He needs help, Steve, and more than just a few hot meals and a roof over his head.”

“I know,” Steve murmured.

“And he’s not the only one,” Sam pressed.

Steve waved him off, “I’m fine, Sam.” 

Sam made a noncommittal noise, “You need to make sure you’re taking care of yourself as well here, Steve.  You can’t help him if you’re not also seeing to your own needs.”

“This _is_ what I need.  You asked me before what made me happy.  _Bucky_ makes me happy.”

“And you’re _sure_ it’s really him?”  Sam held his eyes in an intense stare.

Steve fixed Sam with an adamant look right back.  “I’m sure.” 

Sam studied his face for a long moment before finally nodding.  “Okay then.”  It was like a switch had flipped and Sam was suddenly on the job at the VA.  “How’s he been?  What’s he like now compared to the guy you knew before?”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed and he took a bite of a pickle spear that had been left on the plate.  “I’d be lying if I said he acted the same as he used to.  Back when we shared a place before the war, he was always this warm presence.  Even when Bucky was in a sour mood after a long day of work, or a date went bad, or we got into a row over something stupid, he was always loose, expressive, and _confident_.  He carried himself like a movie star.”  Steve chased the nostalgia away with a shake of his head. “Now, he’s skittish.  I’ve only seen him out of his room for maybe a few hours at a time.  He moves differently than he used to: sharper, quieter, more like a wild animal.”  
  
Sam nodded, “Hard as that might be, Steve, that’s actually probably good news.  If he were acting normally, I’d be worried.  Neither of us know the full story, but you can’t go through what he went through and come out the same on the other side.”

“I know,” Steve sighed.  “But every now and then, I’ll catch this glimpse of the old Bucky in there.  It’s like hearing music through the static on a distant radio station.”  Sam nodded, encouraging him on.  “But then it’s gone just as soon as it was there.”

Sam’s face turned sympathetic.  “It’s normal that he’s going to have good and bad days.  Just because he has a good day doesn’t mean that he’s “better” or “fixed.”  It doesn’t mean that he won’t have a rough go of it tomorrow or the next day.”  

“You know a lot more about this than I do,” Steve said helplessly.  How did he know if what he was doing was helping Bucky?  How did he keep from sending him into another panic, calling him _master_ … 

“Here, let me try to put it a different way.”  Sam pulled his drink closer to him, pointing at the still, dark liquid.  “These good moments for him – they might be like bubbles.  Hard to see when he’s having a hard time.”  He swirled his glass of coke, bringing some bubbles to the surface.   “But they’re there.  Sometimes it might just be a short, nice moment in the dark.”  Sam took a long sip through the straw, “And over time, maybe that dark won’t be quite as frightening – he’ll be able to see that even if things are hard at the moment, he’ll have good feelings again, too.”  

Steve tried to keep his face neutral, but all he could think about was Clarence Daley, the usher at Loew’s Pitkin Theater.  He’d served in the Great War, and had a reputation for a short temper, forgetting where he was, and sometimes lashed out when in a fit of confusion.  When the war news reels started running, he’d gotten worse and the manager had had to let him go.  “It sounds like you’re describing shell shock symptoms.” Steve could hear the worry in his voice.  
  
Sam waved his hands as if clearing the air.  “No, man, we don’t call it that any more.  It’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: PTSD.  And it’s a lot more common than you think.  Believe it or not, people aren’t meant to handle that much killing and death around them, but there are coping strategies, resources, and even outreach programs.”

Steve’s chest tightened.  “What can I do?”  
  
Sam set the cup aside.  “Well, the best thing would be to get him some psychological help.  You would probably benefit from some yourself, too Cap.” Steve avoided the pointed stare fired in his direction.  “But I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that that’s not going to fly in the near future.  In the meantime, you can tell him he’s allowed to enjoy the simple things: a good night’s sleep, a hot meal, whatever helps him relax.  If he was a POW, that might be hard for him to accept.  Might help him hearing it from you.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve gave him a genuine smile.  “I’ll talk to him.”  
  
Sam huffed a sardonic chuckle under his breath, “You know, when you needed my help with your boy back in New York, I figured it was going to be more of the Falcon sort of help instead of Sam the VA counselor.”

“I know this isn’t what you signed up for.  You uprooted your life in D.C. for my sake- ”  
  
“-and then you ghosted me for a week,” Sam interjected, but there was no bite to it.  

It didn’t matter.  Guilt flared anew and Steve’s face fell, “Oh God, Sam – I’m so sorry.  I got caught up, but that’s no excuse-”

Sam held up a hand, “Nuh uh.  Don’t be.  I’m just messing with you, man.  Believe it or not, I’ve somehow managed to keep myself occupied.  Turns out there are a lot of vets in New York who need someone to talk to, and my family hasn’t let me forget the fact I don’t have an excuse not to visit anymore.  Especially now that I’m apparently some kind of celebrity.  I do blame you for _that_ , by the way.”  Sam flashed him the same charming grin that had persuaded Steve to come talk him up after lapping him around the National Mall. “But for real, do you think he’s ready to talk to someone?” Sam asked gently, “Even if this is like _waaay_ above my pay grade, I’d be happy to talk to him at least.”

“Soon.” Steve swallowed, “I – not yet – I need to talk to him about that first, but I do want you to meet him.”

“Oh yeah, not until he’s ready.  Last thing he needs is me barging in there unannounced.  It’d probably feel like an attack.  He already trashed my car and my wing pack – I’m not looking for a rematch.”  Steve winced.  He’d been a _shitty_ friend.  

Sam tapped a finger on the table, drawing Steve’s attention back to him . “But can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Steve answered without hesitation. 

“So, what _is_ he?  I mean,” Sam swallowed, “He’s not _really_ a demon, right?  Not in the fire and brimstone literal sense, at least.”  

Steve winced.  “Bucky hasn’t really wanted to talk about it.  And I don’t blame him.”

“But it’s bothering you,” Sam guessed.  

Steve shrugged.  

“No, don’t bullshit me.  I know it’s got to.  You’ve kept your faith, right?  Even somehow with aliens and Thor and all that?” 

“Thor’s not actually a _god_ ,” Steve deflected, “He’s old.  He’s powerful: sure.  He’s from another world and must have seemed like a god when he visited Earth centuries ago.”

“Mmmm,” Sam’s eyes narrowed.  “You think it’s the same thing, then?  But it’s not like you believed in Norse myths and then Thor himself showed up.  You never bought that to begin with.  It’s easy to say someone else’s religion was based on something they didn’t understand at the time.  What do you do when your best friend?  Ex?  Winds up being a demon?”

And that was the clincher, wasn’t it?  Steve didn’t – _couldn’t_ believe that Bucky was evil.  It just wasn’t in his blood.  If he were, Hydra wouldn’t have had to control him to make him work for them.  He wouldn’t still be hauling his guilt around with him like a ball and chain.  Still, it was hard to argue with what he saw in D.C., and since showing up at his apartment, Steve had accumulated almost as many new questions about what had happened to Bucky as answers.  

It must have shown on his face, because Sam leaned forward and put a hand on his, “Look, man.  I’m not even religious and it’s been stuck in my head since I went up against him, too.  I know you’ve seen some weird shit, Steve, but yeah, that was eye-opening.  He had the whole deal, you know?”

Steve knew.  He still had nightmares about that winged form backlit against the city nights after the rooftop chase, and even with Bucky keeping his arm on display, it was hard to reconcile the relentless demon he’d fought on the helicarrier and the nervous shade of his best friend that had been slinking around his apartment for the last week.  “He’s kept in – I don’t even know what to call it, human-form?  He’s not walking around with horns and wings, at least,” Steve continued, “But I saw them in D.C., too, and I don’t know what it means.  I wish he’d talk to me.”

“What even are our lives, huh?” Sam commiserated. 

“How have you been dealing with it?”  Sam rolled with the punches well, but this had to be affecting him more than he was letting on.  

“Real demons?”  Sam pinched between his eyes and took a long breath.  “You know, when I started questioning back in the day, my dad gave me all these different holy books: the Torah, The Quran, you name it.  It was kind of weird for me at the time and ultimately, yeah, I rejected it – no offense, man, but I couldn’t swallow the whole sky wizard thing.  Teen!Sam thought he was smarter than that -  and look, I know it’s not _about_ that now, but I still couldn’t buy what they were selling.  I don’t think any book can give you all the answers.”

Steve nodded.  “And now?”

Sam spread his hands, “And now I’m not sure what to make of it.  I guess you could say that I’m reserving judgment.  My brother the minister sure thinks he has all the answers, but if you’re a hammer, every problem looks like a nail, you know?”

“Speaking of your brother, I’ll have to thank him myself for that book he loaned me.” 

“Why, is it helping?” Sam asked skeptically.

“Sort of, but not in the way I thought.  It breaks down what the Bible passages says about demons – but most importantly, what it doesn’t say.  There’s really not a lot in the actual Bible about how demons are supposed to look, aside from Satan being represented by the many-headed dragon in Revelations and the serpent in Genesis.  Demons spread disease and false doctrine, seed evil in men’s hearts… those depictions of horned and winged creatures?  All that came later.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.  “What do you make of that?”  
  
“I’m not sure yet,” Steve murmured, “I haven’t looked through the book since he showed up, but from what I’ve seen so far, it doesn’t fit well.”

“That sounds encouraging, right?” Sam hazarded.  

“Here’s hoping,” Steve gave a lopsided smile.   
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Amazing artwork by [Doomcheese](https://doomcheese.tumblr.com/)!   
> Reblog this piece [ on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/172211350043/doomcheese-mystery-sketch-for-araniaart-to-go)


	14. Chapter 14

By the time Bucky stopped outside the warehouse-turned-apartment building, he already felt better.  The salty sea air, the dust of construction, and diesel vehicle exhaust chased away any remaining claustrophobia.  Pavement stretched wide in every direction, and Bucky took solace in the revelation that he was free to go wherever his feet took him.  His options were virtually limitless.  He had no destination other than exploration.  No mission.

As spacious as the apartment was, and as welcoming as Steve had been, the longer he’d been there the more it had begun to feel like a cell.  He needed to prove to himself that the freedoms Steve promised were more than just lip service.  

He swallowed down the fleeting, dangerous urge to spread his wings and take to the sky to soar.  Instead, he pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and powered it down.  

He didn’t bear the weight of a rifle, handgun, or even a knife.  That, more than anything, helped empty his mind of mission protocol.  Even naked, he was a weapon; he didn’t need additional artillery heightening his already twitchy nerves by making him feel equipped for battle.  The point of today was to try out being a _person_.  Besides, he’d been on enough undercover missions to trust his guise and other skills to avoid undue attention. 

A little voice chewed on the back of his mind, whispering that this was risky; that being out alone, unarmed, and uncovered was an invitation to any agency that had a bead on his location.  However, all poking he’d done online showed that, miraculously, no leaked footage from D.C. had shown his face.  If SHIELD or its agents who had jumped ship to other intelligence organizations had footage, they hadn’t shared it publicly yet.  If Hydra had managed to muster ranks and come after him this soon after painting a target on their own backs, Bucky would be surprised.   Without the bond forcing his obedience to a handler, Bucky was confident in his own abilities to evade and escape.  In a real pinch, even unarmed, he was more than familiar with how to turn his environment into an arsenal of improvised weapons.  For now, he was as safe as he could be, hiding in plain sight in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, whose citizens prided themselves on staying out of each others’ business.

Adjusting the brim of his fedora a little lower, Bucky picked a direction that paralleled the waterfront and started walking.  He easily spotted myriad street and traffic cameras, angling his face away from them had been drilled into the Soldier so thoroughly that it had become a reflexive habit.

Vague nostalgia was his companion as he matched his pace to the casual stroll of the smattering of civilians out on a Thursday morning.  The glass storefronts were unfamiliar; some wore antiquity like a mask, details in the font or color palette just askew enough to feel more unsettling than the thoroughly modern shops.  They were caricatures of the past, like his time was some novel curiosity that could be used to sell stationary or, what the fuck, an entire store dedicated to pickles?  However the unevenly cobbled streets set regularly with manhole covers, the very bones of the district itself, was unchanged after the better part of a century.  His feet knew where to take him even if Bucky was just along for the ride.

Despite the fact that no one paid him a second glance as he strolled along the waterway, Bucky was unable to completely shake the feeling that he was being watched.  He _knew_ it was just paranoia from being out in the open on his own recognizance, frivolously investigating the shops in the area.  Nonetheless, despite his self-assurance of the likelihood that anyone would be looking for him here, he remained alert with roaming eyes.  

The simple fact he could go into any of the shops or restaurants just because he _wanted_ to was joyously bewildering.  He wouldn’t be punished for frivolous side-trips.  In fact, he had no mission prerogative at all; no target to watch while pretending to be a simple customer.  He wasn’t even hunting to feed – although, the nagging thoughts squirreling around in his mind promised that he would need to do that soon. 

After a few blocks, the tantalizing scent of rich chocolate lured Bucky to the door of a bona fide Chocolatier – right there in Brooklyn like it was the streets of Paris.  It even had a French name and everything: _Jacques Torres._   Warm orange light spilled out of the large glass windows set between classy dark pillars, and Bucky’s skin itched with the desire to have a look.  It was fancy looking; far too fancy for him.  

Bucky was just about to shove his hands into his pockets and continue on when a young woman poked her head out of the shopfront, “Please, come in and have a look around!  We’re open, in case you were wondering.  There’s a lot more to see inside, I promise!”  Her voice was as sweet as the scents pouring out of the open door, her dark hair tucked up into a bun on the back of her head.  

Bucky glanced quickly around, embarrassingly realizing that – no – he was alone and she was absolutely talking to him.  He dug into his social skillset and fished out a charismatic smile and casual roll of the shoulders that had been used to charm ladies a hundred years ago, “Well thank you,” his eyes flicked down to the nametag she wore pinned to her chest, “Eloisa – I don’t mind if I do.”  

At her invitation, he strolled inside.  When she held the door open for _him_ , it jarred strangely against his nerves, but the practiced smile plastered to his face never faltered.

Inside, the rich, silky fragrance of fresh chocolate carried him down a river of memory- 

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>  _smack dab into a smoky basement with a square of chocolate melting over his tongue.  He rolled it teasingly as he shuffled through a middling hand of cards.  Several choice pieces of D-rations were piled out on the table in front of him and three of the other Howling Commandos.  “I mean if you don’t like your chocolate, Morita, I’d be happy to take the rest of it off your hands.”_
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> _“Cut the crap, Barnes.  I know you’ve got trash,” Morita drawled as he added a bar to the center pile._
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> _Morita’s bravado, however, wavered in the face of the perfectly crafted smirk that pulled at the corners of Bucky’s mouth._

“Is there something in particular I can help you find?” Eloisa’s twinkling voice laced with a hint of concern summoned Bucky back to the present, clearing the vacant expression that had taken over his face.  “Are you shopping for yourself or for a gift for a special someone?”

“Ah, no – well, maybe.”  A perfect pyramid of exquisitely packaged giftsets formed a display in front of him.  That _would_ be a nice thing to bring back to Steve – he liked chocolate, right?  Fuck, who didn’t like chocolate?

“We also have individual truffles, bars, cookies – even hot chocolate!  Or I can stay out of your hair and let you take a look around.”

“Thanks, doll,” Bucky purred, a bit mystified when a small frown tugged at her mouth.  “I’ll take a stroll around and let you know.”

Bucky had to look three times at the prices to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him, but the billfold in his pocket was thick with Hydra money from the safehouse he ransacked.  It seemed fitting somehow to blow Hydra money on something as benign as sweets.  

The assortment of options was dizzying, but somehow a crinkly plastic sleeve of chocolate covered blueberries found its way into the crook of his arm, joined shortly after by a flat tin of assorted truffles and a chocolate bar that cost six whole dollars.  Bucky found himself drooling over the front counter display laden with cookies, individual truffles, fudge, chocolate in all kinds of shapes from simple hearts to fully formed rabbits, elegant cakes, and something called “gelato” that looked like ice cream.

By the time he left with a bag full of classy sweets, a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and a decadent, velvety chocolate foam coating his tongue and warming his gullet, he felt like a damn millionaire.  

When a dog darted his way with a snuffling nose and furiously wagging tail, Bucky acted on instinct, interposing his left arm between the dog’s mouth and his body.  The only dogs he’d run into for years had been guard dogs; fortunately, their teeth couldn’t get through the armor of his left arm and that allowed him to stop them without hurting them.  Hurting a poor animal that was just acting on its master’ orders had hit too close to home, even when his memories had been stripped bare.  Besides, it wasn’t like the animals could make very good witnesses – he was thankful that his standing orders had never compelled him to kill them.  However, this brown and white spotted pooch was more interested in covering his face with slobber than doing any harm.  Bucky’s heart melted, and a genuine grin split his face as he ruffled the exuberant pup’s fur.  

The owner – a young woman with striped socks up to her knees, unnaturally red hair, and a ring through one of her eyebrows, apologized all over herself for her over-enthusiastic dog who had slipped his leash, but Bucky waved them away with a chuckle, just making sure to keep the bag of chocolates out of nose-range.  

A warm feeling buzzed in his chest as he continued on his way: guard dogs had always been aggressive, and Bucky had _hoped_ that it was only because of their training.  However, he couldn’t shake a concern stemming from the old monster movies he used to love that frequently depicted domesticated animals being able to smell the wrongness of supernatural monsters: reacting fearfully or viciously to the interlopers.  The fact that this dog hadn’t given a damn that he smelled _different_ was a weight off of his shoulders.  

Bucky continued on his expedition, feeling lighter.  After having mustered past the first shop’s threshold, reassuring himself that he was allowed inside – the second, third, and fourth forays became progressively easier.  None of the employees were anything but welcoming and helpful.  They seemed to find his bewilderment charming.

Bucky slipped into a clothing store, with rack after rack of mens’ clothing in line with some of the more bizarre choices he’d been seeing on the streets alongside shaving kits, cologne, briefcases, and even furniture.  Despite the warm weather, Bucky still balked at the colorful print button-downs or jeans that didn’t look like they’d fit around his thighs.  But while he wasn’t quite ready to tackle the nuance of modern fashion, he found himself drawn to a familiar round-tin of pomade.  The clerk swore that the “vintage product would add great texture to his hair”, and the next thing he knew, it was added to a bag and he was continuing his stroll.  

He stopped for lunch at a café that served “artisanal sandwiches” – whatever that meant.  But the bread and vegetables were fresh, and the perfectly cured meat and sharp cheeses compelled Bucky to go back for seconds.  

As he spent the day exploring, Bucky marveled at the sheer number of stores in the area that catered to artists, photographers, and designers.  Did Steve know about them?  Had he even ventured around the borough for more than just his pre-dawn runs, or had he been miserably holed up in his apartment?  Steve acted like his life was still frozen in the ice when there was so much within walking distance from his apartment that might rekindle some of the fierce passion that Bucky swore he remembered. 

In fact, the more Bucky spent the day to himself, the more he found himself wondering what Steve would make of the sights.  What would Steve think of the woman he passed on the streets in a full, taffeta ballgown with ruffles that brushed the sidewalk and matching pink hair shaved into a spiky strip down the center of her head?  What about the herd of tourists standing on ridiculous, automated scooters?  Had he tried one of these mouthwatering brisket sandwiches that was sold straight out of a truck and had a line down the block?  What about the ice cream parlor that had flavors like Foie Gras, Buttermilk Biscuit, and Extra Virgin Olive Oil?

A building urge to rant to a friend about the sights wasn’t the only reason Bucky’s mind kept snapping back to Steve like he were magnetized.  The only thing more ubiquitous through Brooklyn than stores with names that had nothing to do with what they sold was the familiar red, white, and blue shield symbol.  The fact that Captain America was a Brooklyn native had not slipped through the cracks of history; book shops featured Captain America biographies on carts outside the doors, homemade jewelry stores featured the shield on beads and necklaces, and the café he had stopped at for lunch had a “Captain America Hero Sandwich”.  He couldn’t walk for five minutes without seeing the symbol on a t-shirt or tattoo.  What would the people who had lived here back in the 1930s have thought if they knew the kid that spent a fair portion of his life getting beat up in alleyways would be more famous than the Yankees?  Of course, it wasn’t little Steve Rogers that was being celebrated, but the mascot who had been on war bonds posters and comic books.  

The sour taste in his mouth evaporated the moment he spied a trio of kids playing on a playground, the smallest one of the group sported short-cropped dark hair, thick glasses, and wore a blue t-shirt with Cap’s shield on it.  The knobby knees and wheezing laughter knocked Bucky back in time to- 

>   
>  _a day hazy with summer’s heat ripples and his tongue kept flicking against a loose tooth in his mouth.  He turned back to grin at his pal, arms wrapped around a sketchbook wider than his skinny chest, “C’mon Steve – I heard there’s a hydrant on Flatbush that got knocked open – leave it at home or you’re gonna get your pictures all wet!”_

He blinked and the vision faded as suddenly as it appeared, the Steve of his memories replaced with the small boy on the playground.  He’d hardly gotten his bearings again when, suddenly, the kid stumbled while chasing his two buddies, skinning his knees on the pavement.  The kid’s eyes widened frantically as his gasps constricted into a strangled whistling in his throat.  A hot flare of instinctual concern had Bucky taking hurried steps in his direction before a kid in a red towel-turned-cape turned around and stooped to help his friend.  He fished a small device from the kneeling kid’s pocket and brought it to his face.  “C’mon, Cap, you got this,” his friend encouraged and Bucky’s eyes suddenly stung.  He blinked rapidly as the kid took two deep puffs from it, steadying himself for just a few moments before getting back to his feet with a fearless grin and went back to chasing after his friend.  

*

Day bled into evening and found Bucky miles from where he’d begun the day.  The streetlamps flickered to life along the sidewalk and Bucky’s thumb found the smooth edge of the cell phone tucked into his pocket.  Indecision flickered in his chest until finally, chewing his lip, he powered it on to check for messages.  

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when no missed calls and no text messages waited for him.  He went to the menu to bring up Steve’s clear message history, and as he watched, three dots appeared beneath Steve’s icon, and hung there for a moment before disappearing.  

Bucky let out a soft laugh and clawed his gloved hand through his hair.  Steve was probably worried, but doing his best not to give in and pester him.  He _could_ message Steve preemptively instead.  He probably should: let him know he was OK, let him know he’s still out and about and to not wait up for him.  But that defeated the point of why he was doing this: testing his leash.  He needed to make sure that that the most he heard from Steve would be frantic calls or text messages making sure he wasn’t dead in an alleyway or captured; not threats to come after him, SHIELD strike teams appearing to come retrieve him, or –worse yet - that inescapable pull of the summons calling him back.  He needed to make sure that if he _wanted_ to, he had the option to leave Steve.

But he didn’t want to.  

Maybe proving this to himself was the other reason he was doing this.  Still, he couldn’t head back yet – not after his close call that morning.  Certainly not when the hunger had grown over the course of the day and was now nipping at his heels, dragging his mind into the gutter every time he passed a fella who made eye contact.  That little voice always started out as a quiet nagging, but if he ignored it too long it became a scream that he couldn’t block out, drowning out any other rational thought.  He didn’t know what he’d do if he got back to Steve’s place and found him in one of those t-shirts that he wore tight enough to count his abs through.  

_What would it feel like to run my hands up that washboard stomach - or better yet my tongue?  I’d ruck that painted-on shirt up, exposing the smooth expanse of his skin.  Did Steve blush all the way down to his navel_? _I’d like to find out as I mouth my way down the fine hairs that start beneath his belly button-_

Nope! Strike that!  He knew _exactly_ what he’d do and that was _precisely_ why he needed to head uptown rather than back to Brooklyn.  

Bucky wasn’t stupid; he’d noticed that Steve had been avoiding the subject.  _He_ had been the one to even bring it up, and it wasn’t like Steve was jumping to continue their relationship.  All discussion of it was decisively past-tense.  

Bucky couldn’t get the look on Steve’s face after he saw him dressed up out of his mind.  Steve _knew_ what he was going out to do.  He was disgusted by it – and why shouldn’t he be?  Steve knew what he was now; how could he ever want to be with a _demon_?  

The worst thing was that Bucky knew in his soul (assuming he still had one) that if he asked, Steve would let him.   Steve would welcome him into his bed, and Bucky would hate himself for following him there.  

Even if Steve could get past the “minor issue” of Bucky being a fucking _demon,_ Steve didn’t know the full scope of what he’d done to survive Hydra.  If he did, how could he even look him in the eye after that?  Let alone _make love_ to him?  Sex _meant_ something to Steve.  It _should_ mean something to Bucky – but it couldn’t – not now, not when he was getting hungry for it.  Not when he had been on his knees for more Hydra agents than he could even remember.  When he’d begged them for it.  Steve deserved better than to be with someone who had done the things he had.

Still, the monster inside of him twisted and sent another reminding throb to his cock, he _did_ need to feed.  He might have escaped Hydra, but he hadn’t escaped what they’d turned him into. 

Steve should be with someone better for him: someone like Sam.  Bucky didn’t know why the hell he had _asked_ , but Steve had _admitted_ to liking Sam.  And that was – that _should_ be good - but then why did he feel like he’d swallowed battery acid?  

Bucky shook his head roughly.  Nope, he was definitely _not_ ready to deal with that – whatever that was. _Focus, Barnes.  Like it or not, you’ve got to feed._

He tapped the icon on his phone that let him look up whatever he could think of and decided to test Steve’s claims that the future had gotten more progressive.  Slowly, Bucky picked out the letters on the digital keyboard:

_dance clubs for queers in New York_

Bucky nearly swallowed his tongue as less than a second later, the page refreshed proclaiming 3,200,000 results. 

“Fuck me,” he murmured, scrolling down through the lists that shamelessly boasted the best places for homosexuals to get together.  No back-alley doorways where the right knock got you in.  No clubs that happened to turn the other cheek if a fellah wanted to buy another fellah a beer.   These were big places with neon signs right out in the open.

A bone-deep instinct demanded he put some distance between his feeding grounds and where he was staying.  After following a few links, it didn’t take him long to pick out a prime candidate:  described as a “sweaty and deep” party whose DJs knew “just how to create an erotic throwdown” with a roving address: currently set up in a dance club across the bridge in Manhattan.  Bucky couldn’t have imagined a better location to feed. Now he just needed to find a place to stash his shopping.

*

Thick smoke poured from a fog machine, refracting the pulsing multi-colored lights.  More people packed the crowded dance floor than any of the dancehalls that swirled through his hazy memories, dancing with a frenzied intensity to the digital noise that blared deafeningly over the speakers.  The music pounded through him in pulsing waves,  but the scents of the club -  the sweat, the lust, the desire rippling through the crowd -  made the deafening music an afterthought.  

Compared to this place, the last bar he’d gone hunting at had been low-key.  The club was no larger than the last one, but double the people packed into the confined dance space.  If the gyrating, grinding press of bodies against each other was considered ‘dancing.’  A few standouts had cleared a bit of space to perform acrobatic maneuvers in time to the thrumming beat; one of which had removed his shirt, putting his sweat-sheened torso on full display to the hungry eyes around him.  Keying into the desire in others was a sixth sense, and this packed bar screamed with it.  He could feel the lust of the crowd in his bones, in his blood – it was so much, _too_ much that it nearly bowled him over.  Nearly everyone in here was a potential target: he was a starving man at a banquet, a shark in bloodied waters, close to a feeding frenzy.  Bucky found himself glad for the music – no one would be able to hear the rumbling growl in his chest as his mounting hunger amplified into a raging need.  

His body began to move sinuously, somehow finding a beat in the cacophony.  Instinct demanded he make his way into the crush of the crowd, let the lust of the charged room flow through him, and amplify it to an irresistible degree.  Bucky flowed on the music towards the crowd, awash in the scents of sweat, musk, and liquor.  

_It would be so easy, just let it go.  It would feel so good._

Already eyes were drawn to him, the nearest bodies turning their dance towards him.  

_Oh God – what am I thinking?!  This is too much!_

Bucky bee-lined it for the men’s room.

Dark eyes reflected back in the mirror.  That had been close – _too_ close.  Bucky didn’t want to think about the orgy he had nearly caused on the dancefloor.  

_Oh yes I do - oh fuck, to be in charge of that, on my own-_

_No!  I wasn’t in charge, I wasn’t in control – I don’t want that – I don’t want_ this!  _God, what would Steve think of me if I did THAT?!  Coming here when I was already hungry was a bad idea._

It was a damn good thing he hadn’t waited any longer before leaving their apartment to feed.  If he had been any hungrier out there... 

Bucky expelled a sharp breath, splashing his face with cold water from the sink.  However, he stiffened when he took his next breath. The bathroom might be insulated, the electronic music a muffled heartbeat, but the ripe smell of sex, sweat, and semen hung in the air.   Eager couples didn’t always make it out of the club, it seemed.

Bucky gripped the edge of the countertop, gritting his teeth as his erection strained his tight jeans.  He’d put this off too long; maintaining his guise for an extended period had taxed his energy.  That combined with the overwhelming scents of desire in the club had nearly thrown him into heat.  Splashing water over his face wasn’t going to do him a damn bit of good with the cloying perfume of sex in his nose.  His hips rolled against the edge of the counter, seeking friction. His ass cheeks shifted slickly against each other as his body lubricated the way for what it craved.  His lips curled into a snarl and it was becoming increasingly difficult to not let his longer, curved canines show.  The meticulous control he had scraped to regain over the past weeks was slipping in the face of the supernatural need rearing its monstrous head.   
  
_Stop it – stop it – hate this! – hate feeling like a monsterpredatorcreature!_

The door banged open as a swarthy, thickly built man strode in, skin slick with sweat.  He sported an immaculately trimmed beard, intricate tattoos that covered halfway down his right arm, and his hair had been sculpted with a precision that the Bucky of the 40s would have admired.  The Bucky of today, however – the hungry sex demon - was much more interested in the sizable bulge in the man’s painted-on leather pants.  

His mark’s eyes lingered on Bucky as he gave him a nod.  “You doing okay there?  You look like you’re having a bad trip.”

Bucky swallowed tightly, prying his fingers carefully from their death grip on the countertop.  He needed to feed; out in the club was too overwhelming, but one on one?  Bucky could handle _that_.  

His close-call panic subsided as hunger licked through him with a vengeance.  His attention sharpened to a laser-focus.  “Naw – I’m fine – I was just in the city looking for a good time but wasn’t quite prepared for how intense it was out there.”  The smile he spread across his face was charming with a hint of vulnerability.  He allowed himself to relax, his posture easing and opening in invitation.  

“If you just wanted a hookup and weren’t looking to party, why didn’t you just hit up grindr?”  Tattoos chuffed with a bemused shake of his head.

“Grinder?”  Bucky hated feeling stupid, but something told him that he had better get used to it in this weird fucking future. 

“The app…?  Nevermind.”  Tattoo’s eyes flicked up and down Bucky, appraising.  “Good thing you’re cute.  I don’t normally go for tourists, especially the long hair and freaky contacts type, but…” Bucky could spy the moment the pheromones hit, “if you were looking for a private party…”

Bucky’s grin turned feral as he closed the distance between them and unchained his desire. 

*

Emerging from the club was like stepping out of a thick fog: he hadn’t realized just how muzzy-headed he’d been until his brain had taken the reins back from his dick.  He shouldn’t have let it get that bad.  He shouldn’t have put himself into a place full of that much overwhelming temptation to begin with – not that he had expected it to be so intense.  

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the long locks back into a semblance of order and let the cool night air fill his lungs.  His fingers itched for a cigarette to close the book on his encounter and clear his nose of the lingering traces of sex.  

When he flipped his phone back on, one message was waiting for him, from Steve:  
  
_I hope you’re OK._

Bucky let out a sigh, grimacing at himself.  He had been an ass by giving Steve the silent treatment all day, but seeing the check-in free of demands or accusations touched him in a profound way.  Despite his earlier desire to taste freedom, Bucky found himself typing out a response.

 _I’m fine.  Headed home._    
  
Bucky blinked as he hit send.  _Home_.  Well fuck, that was telling, wasn’t it?  
  
Bucky slid the phone back into his pocket and started walking… home.   

*

It was past two in the morning by the time Bucky made it back to Steve’s apartment, yet the warm yellow light still shone brightly through the curtains of the corner window.  With a scowl, Bucky snubbed out the cigarette that had kept him company the last few blocks.  Had the asshole _really_ waited up for him?  Time for the third degree.

 _Debrief, Soldat._    
  
He smoothed his shirt, suddenly self-conscious about whatever scents might still be clinging to him from the club.  At least the reek of cigarette smoke would probably serve as an adequate cover-up.  

He opened the front door quietly, and sure enough, Steve was still up, reading in the armchair.  His head jerked up, snapping the book in his hand closed so quick that Bucky would have thought he was trying to hide a pinup mag from his mom.  Instead, a squirmy feeling twisted his stomach when he realized Steve had been reading the Bible.  

As if he couldn’t feel worse about where he was coming from.  

The smile that lit up Steve’s face, however, made it hard to be too sore.  “You’re back!”

Bucky let out the breath he’d apparently been holding, wresting his eyes from the leather cover of the book.  “Yeah.”  He swallowed, “Hey, sorry about this morning, I-“  
  
Steve cut him off with a shake of his head, rising to his feet and closing part of the distance between them, “Please, Buck – you have nothing to apologize for.  I was pushing you, and I made a bad call.”  He hesitated, eyes quickly strafing over him.  “Do you feel any better?”

Bucky rolled his shoulders, his mouth tightening in the corners.  “Cleared my head,” he said, leaving it at that.  No interrogation?  No demand for a debriefing?  No chastising him for not staying in contact?  Steve should have been pissed.  Instead, he seemed… genuinely warm?  Glad to see him?  Bucky swallowed, trying to find his footing again.  “But hey, I uhm, brought you something.” He unceremoniously thrust a paper bag towards Steve.  Chocolate was a good apology, right?  Flowers seemed like they’d have been a bit too on the nose.

Steve’s brows climbed up his forehead as he reached for the bag clearly labeled with the _Jacques Torres_ logo.  Still, shitty wrapping job or no, Steve’s face lit up when he pulled out the gift box of truffles.  

“You got me chocolate?” 

Bucky’s hands slipped into his pockets and he shrugged.  “Guess I did.”

“Thank you, Buck.”  The smile he levied at Bucky was nostalgia concentrated into an expression, and Bucky was out of ways to deal with that right now.  Not after where he’d just come back from.  
  
“Yeah, well, it was the least I could do,” he mumbled, turning away from the incandescence of Steve’s face and retreated to the guest bedroom.   

A moment after stepping into his room he pulled an immediate about-face, sticking his head out of the room.  “What the hell is this?” he insisted, pointing sharply at a plastic-wrapped tube.

Steve trotted up to the doorway, grinning like an idiot. “That’s your bed!”

“I think there’s something wrong with it.” Bucky narrowed his eyes dubiously.  

“I’d thought about opening it up for you, but I thought you might want to see for yourself.  It’s actually pretty keen, Buck.”

“It’s a _mattress_.” Bucky shook his head, retreating back into the room and shutting the door.  How interesting could it be?  Nevertheless, he carefully tore away the plastic wrapping to see the tube begin to unfurl and to expand in the air.

“Yeah, I know how you feel, pal,” Bucky muttered under his breath as he watched the bed wriggle and squirm like a thing coming to life now that it was free of its restraints.    As if it was remembering how to be a mattress.  

He huffed under his breath.  He was talking to a goddamned mattress.  He’d eaten, he’d fed, and he’d gotten out and about, but it still had been at least forty eight hours since he’d slept.   
__  
Well within mission operation parameters.  
  
Bucky grit his teeth.  Time for some goddamned sleep.  Maybe with a full stomach and a well-needed feeding, more would come back to him and he would feel better in the morning.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Adorable artwork by [puddingpong](http://puddingpong.tumblr.com/)  
> /[ reblog it on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/175378068763/puddingpong-a-commission-for-araniaart-of)  
> (Bucky wants attention, Steve - you can do that paperwork later X3 )


	15. Chapter 15

 

A guttural scream tore Steve from his bed, plunging him directly into a state of heightened awareness.  His shield was in-hand by the time his feet hit the carpet, propelling him towards the sound.   _Bucky!_   _Oh God!_   An icy vice cinched over his heart and myriad worst case scenarios tumbled through his mind as Steve raced to help.  

_Had Bucky been spotted when he was out yesterday?  What if someone followed him back to the apartment, waiting till we were asleep to launch an attack?  God, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep and let my guard down!  What if the CIA figured out the location of the Winter Soldier, or worse, a surviving cell of Hydra?  Or maybe this is my fault!  Maybe some goddamned algorithm tracked all of those online orders – I thought that having just moved in a couple weeks ago would be a good enough justification, but what if I flagged something?_

A breath later and Steve was at Bucky’s door – the agonizing screams now bordering on animalistic screeches.  He paused for a moment at the closed door, swallowing and weighing the invasion of Bucky’s carefully cultivated privacy against the potential imminent threat.  But only for a moment.

He wrenched the French doors open, its flimsy lock giving way with no resistance.  

For a moment, as Steve’s eyes tried to make sense of the squirming mass in the low light, he saw two wrestling forms tangled up beneath the bed sheets.  Bitten yelps and pained screeches drew Steve closer – and he was ready to strike, to pry this invader off of his friend – when his eyes adjusted and he realized exactly what was going on.  He fell back, face gone from flushed to clammy within the space of a heartbeat; the shield fell with a dull thump onto the carpet.  

Bucky had _shifted_ _forms_.  The blankets had netted his wings, the claw tips tearing through in places only managing to snare him more securely as he thrashed, wailing and whimpering in his sleep.  

Steve’s breath caught in his throat and his arms went limp by his side, staring impotently as Bucky writhed and twisted in the snarled sheets, his frantic movements binding him tighter.  A ragged, torn pillowcase looped around his ridged horns, and with a long _RIIIIIP_ a wing tore loose of the covers, flapping erratically.  An errant tail lashed out, flailing and slamming with an audible _THUD_ against the bed as he rolled, sinking teeth and claws into the offending mattress.  

The bedroom tipped, nauseous vertigo swallowing Steve up and spitting him out back on the helicarrier – 

> _locked in a grapple with the demon; every part of his monstrous anatomy a weapon in his arsenal.  He fought with the frantic intensity of a trapped animal, biting, clawing and doing everything in his considerable power to break loose of Steve’s hold.  He couldn’t let go – not with millions of lives on the line – not with-_  
> 

Another ear-splitting screech ripped through Steve, yanking him out of his vision.  

God, what should he do?  Those wails were anguish, but what if he woke Bucky only to find himself facing down the same Winter Soldier he fought in D.C.?  What if his mindset was tied to his form?  Maybe that’s why Bucky had been so skittish to talk about it. 

“Bucky?” Steve hated how strangled his voice sounded as he tried to gently wake the Winter Sol- _his friend_.  

His words fell on deaf ears as another inhuman screech ripped from his throat that sounded like a creature from one of the Alien movies that Rumlow had made him watch.  He couldn’t leave him like this.  

Without taking his eyes off of Bucky’s writhing form, he tried another tactic: walking backwards to the room’s entrance and flipping on the overhead light.  Bucky’s form stilled for a moment, tensing.  Knobby vertebrae all down his back flexed, extending before Steve’s eyes into a spiny ridge, and a low growl rumbled into the torn mattress.   His long tail swished slowly back and forth like an angry cat.  

Steve had decked a man with a skull for a face, fought space aliens two weeks after being thrust into the future, and habitually leapt out of airplanes without a parachute, but seeing his best friend reduced to this was what managed to crush his resolve.  

“Bucky, _please_! Wake up!”  Steve spoke louder, carefully moving to a crouch beside his bed.  _Please be okay.  I don’t want to fight you.  I don’t know if I_ can _fight you again._

The plates of Bucky’s left arm rippled and shifted; the thorny protrusions near his elbow and shoulder jutted outwards.  Bucky head tilted towards Steve’s voice, his lips peeling back, to reveal long, sickle-shaped canines, a deep, warning growl echoing in his chest.  His eyes, however, remained shut, moving rapidly beneath the fluttering lids. 

Steve wet his chapped lips and forced himself to take a deep breath.  Gingerly, Steve set his hand on Bucky’s flesh-shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Hey Buck – wake up.  I -”

All of Bucky’s coiled tension exploded into a strike too fast for even Steve to deflect.  It wasn’t until hooked claws froze millimeters from Steve’s nose that he even processed how close he was to having his face torn off.  

There was no fight here.  Relief rushed in to fill the vacuum of delayed panic and Steve let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized had caught in his throat.  “Bucky?  Hey, hey – Buck.  It’s me: Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes flared open wide, pupils contracting to pinpoints as his mouth fell open in a plaintive gasp.  “ _Steve?!”_ All at once, the feral posture crumbled. Bucky fell backwards onto the shredded pile of foam that was once a mattress.  

Blinking rapidly, Bucky’s shoulders jerked as he took stock of the destruction around him.  “Oh God,” He winced.  “ _Oh God!”_ His voice constricted as – a moment later – he looked down at himself: tail snaking through the tattered sheets and wings gripping the edges of the bed.  

Bucky’s head snapped back up to Steve and fresh horror crashed over his face.  “What are you doing in here?!  _Don’t look at me!_ ”   
  
 

  


_Artwork by_[ JueFeifei!](https://juefeifeifei.tumblr.com/)  
[Reblog it on tumblr here](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/180623354708/so-i-just-got-in-the-most-amazing-commission-from)  


“I’m sorry, Buck – I’m sorry – I heard screams.  I thought you were in trouble!”  Bucky didn’t seem to hear; mismatched clawed hands covered his face as Bucky’s body convulsed in a shudder.  Like on the rooftop when Steve had first seen him in the present, a hazy shimmer passed over Bucky like a heat mirage.  His devilish traits flickered in the air, swirling between visible and not, but Bucky’s shoulders were shaking; wet, gasping sobs dripping through the slats between his fingers.  And then, like a television with the plug pulled, the shimmer evaporated, leaving the demonic features behind.  

“I can’t- can’t focus-” Bucky blubbered, cutting himself off with a frustrated, animal growl.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve cajoled, “You don’t have to-” 

“IT’S NOT OKAY!” Bucky wheeled on Steve with a roar, teeth bared and wings flaring behind him.  “LOOK AT ME! I’m not _OKAY!”_

Steve swallowed, held up his empty hands, and tried to keep his face neutral despite the creeping horror of confronting this snarling, terrified creature that Bucky had transformed into.  “Bucky – what happened?”  
  
Bucky mashed his palms up against his face with another whining growl.  “Nightmare,” he snarled, “A fucking nightmare!”  His fingers curled inwards, claws digging roughly into his scalp.

“Hey- hey, it’s alright!” Steve reached towards him, but hesitated before making contact.  “I get it, I really do.”  How many nights had Steve watched helplessly as Bucky fell from the train, only to wake himself up screaming his name and reaching to grab his hand?

“You’re _safe_ here, Buck. Hey, just breathe… you said you couldn’t focus?  Is that what you need to do to change back?”  Steve kept his voice even and soothing, edging a little closer.  Maybe this was like Banner: if Bucky could calm down, he could revert back.   
  
Bucky dropped his hands, finally looking at Steve, but anguish was written all over his face.  “That’s the thing, Steve,” he whispered, voice taking on a hysterical edge, “That’s the fucking problem.  I don’t _change back._ ”

“I don’t understand,” Steve shook his head.  “I’ve seen you!  You’ve been human – except for your arm at least...”

Bucky stared at his hands fisted into the sheets, his voice thin, “Do you remember when you were there and my tail got longer?”  

Steve nodded.  How could he forget?  It had happened right on the heels of their time together in Leszno, curdling the most intimate moment of Steve’s life.  Bucky had desperately clutched to him, gasping as each vertebrae cracked audibly as his tail surged longer in punctuated spurts.  It had been disturbing to watch, but what made it the hardest was the humiliated groans Bucky had pressed into Steve’s chest, knowing that there was nothing he could do to help him but soothe him as he rode through the changes. 

Bucky voice dripped revulsion with every word, “I experienced _every one_ of these changes as they perverted my body.  THIS:” he snapped his wings open again, “is the real me now.  The Bucky you’ve been seeing?  That’s just a damn illusion.  He’s fucking _gone_.  This monster is all you’ve got left.”  

Realization hit like a hammer.  Bucky had been wearing a mask around him, trying to be the person he thought Steve wanted him to be.  Yet, as Steve looked now, it was as if a film had been peeled away from Bucky’s face; the inexplicable distortion that Bucky carried with him had been stripped away.  Despite the horns, fangs and pointed ears, the man that knelt before him looked more like _Bucky_ than the person who had lived with him for the better part of two weeks.  The glimmer in his eyes, the familiar nose, the divot in his chin; even the way his eyes creased at the corners were _right_.  “Hey,” Steve’s voice was quiet, but firm, “You don’t need to hide from me, Buck.  If this is _you_ ,” he swallowed, but maintained eye contact, spreading his arms out in invitation, “then that’s more than enough.  C’mere.”  

The wings that Bucky held poised around him trembled as Bucky watched Steve incredulously.  Then, gradually, Bucky began to tip towards him until he overbalanced, falling into Steve’s outstretched arms.  As soon as Steve wrapped his broad arms around him, Bucky melted into wracking sobs.  

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”  Steve whispered into the thin strip of soft skin between Bucky’s armored shoulder and his neck.  “I should have been there.  I should have come for you.  You shouldn’t have had to deal with this alone.” Bucky nodded almost imperceptibly, his breath catching in a hiccup.  

For five minutes that seemed to both stretch on forever and be over in the space of a heartbeat, Bucky clung to Steve, silent except for the wet, ragged breaths that he drew through Steve’s undershirt.  Steve was scared to breathe another word and risk ruining the moment.  Instead, he gently ran a hand through Bucky’s long hair, smoothing out the tangles and hoping that he could somehow infuse into him every ounce of his love and support through touch alone.  

Knowing now that this was Bucky’s true form, Steve looked him over again with fresh eyes.  His tail coiled and uncoiled, before finally gripping a bunched corner of the sheets.  Steve had forgotten how expressive his tail had been during the war, despite the fact that Bucky had hated it.  Rapt, he watched as the erect spines down his back eased, receding back into small bumps along his spine.  Steve marveled at the intricate scale-like plating along the arms of Bucky’s wings.  Each dark armor piece moved and flexed along with him, rustling and shifting with each heaving breath.  Then, his wings made an aborted gesture to wrap forward around Steve before jerking backwards and performing a bizarre contortion.  The long ‘fingers’ curled in on themselves, then the wings folded up like a map, bending and compressing in on themselves until they lay flat against his back.  The plates shifted again, spreading over and interlocking in a new configuration like puzzle-pieces.  The whole process was surprisingly effective at hiding the massive appendages, and left Bucky’s back scaled, with a striking resemblance to an alligator.  

“That’s amazing,” Steve murmured without thinking.  

Bucky pushed away, wiping at his face with the back of his human hand.  “Not the word I’d use,” he grumbled.  

Steve swallowed, “Bucky – hey – no.  You’ve got _wings_!  You can _fly_.  How is that not incredible?”

Bucky gaped at Steve.  “How is it not incredible?” He parroted back, voice cracking and armored plates bristling once more.  “Because I’m a goddamn _demon_ Steve!  Don’t pretend that that doesn’t fucking _bother_ you.  You think I haven’t seen you reading your Bible lately?  That I didn’t notice that book on demons on your shelf?”

He should have seen that one coming.  Of course Bucky would have noticed that and taken it in the worst way possible.  “Bucky, it’s only because I’ve been trying to understand.”

Bucky leveled him with a flat look, his mouth a straight gash across his face.  “You want to understand?  Understand this, Steve: Hydra _won_.  They finished what they started back in Kreischberg.”  Bucky’s eyes went distant, his voice adopting an unfamiliar cadence, “War makes monsters out of men.”

“War also makes heroes.” Steve countered immediately.  

“Yeah, well, we both know which side each of us wound up on,” Bucky spat bitterly. 

Steve straightened.  “No.”  No one was going to talk about Bucky like that – not even Bucky himself.  “Someone isn’t a monster because of what’s on the outside; it’s what’s in their heart that matters, and I _know_ you, Bucky.”  Steve pressed on, ignoring Bucky’s curled lip, “Even when you were forced to follow orders, even when you couldn’t remember who you were, you _saved my life_ after the helicarriers.  You _are_ a hero.”

“You don’t even know a quarter of what I did when I was working for them,” Bucky protested, curling inwards.  “Trust me, you don’t want to know the memories that surfaced tonight in those damn nightmares.  The more I remember, the more I want to claw it out of my head!”

“You did what Hydra _made_ you do, Bucky.  That’s not your fault.  You did what you had to to survive, and I’m _proud_ of you for making it through.”

“I didn’t have a _choice_ in the matter, Steve.  I _wanted_ to die!  I was looking for ways to do it, but they wouldn’t _let_ me,” Bucky spat hysterically, the plates of his arm rippling as he made a fist.  “So many people paid the price for – what? – _me_?  It would have been better for everyone if I had just died in the fall.”

“Don’t say that!” Steve snapped.  “Maybe it’s selfish of me to say, but dammit, Buck – you’re all I’ve got left of the person _I_ used to be.  I’m glad you’re here.”

“This doesn’t just affect me, Steve!  You tried to do something nice for me and I’ve ruined that, too! I can’t even sleep in a damn bed without destroying it!” The words spilled faster from Bucky’s mouth, voice rising in pitch, “you should just kick me out before I manage to hurt you, too.”  Bucky grabbed a handful of the shredded foam.

“You won’t hurt me, Bucky.” Steve countered with unwavering confidence.  

Bucky scoffed, “Yeah, maybe not – because you’re my damn _Master_.  But that doesn’t mean I can’t ruin your life anyway.”  He chucked the handful of foam at Steve.  

“Bucky,” Steve took a breath, ignoring the foam confetti now strewn through his hair and over his lap.  “You had a bad night.  Some days will be good, and some of them will be hard, and that’s okay.  That’s _normal_ for someone who’s suffered a fraction of what you went through.”  Bucky’s eyes tentatively flicked back up to Steve’s.  “It doesn’t make you weak or bad or whatever you’re telling yourself right now.”  Steve thought back to his conversation earlier with Sam.  “I’d be more concerned if someone came out of what you went through _not_ changed.  You told me you had a good day when you went out, and you’ll have more good days.  You are allowed to want and to enjoy things!  Eventually, if you let yourself get help, the good might start to outnumber the bad.”  
  
When Bucky stayed quiet, the very tip of his tail twitching back and forth, Steve pressed on.  “I want to help you, Bucky.  Not _just_ because you’re my friend, but because what Hydra put you through was terrible, and it _wasn’t your fault._ Bucky, you don’t have to be ashamed of this.”  Steve took a chance and reached out, laying a hand gently over Bucky’s twitching tail.  It stilled immediately, Bucky’s eyes jumping to Steve’s.  “We’ll find a way to make this work.”

Bucky’s face crumbled, “ _I don’t want to be this, Steve!_ I don’t want to be the monster they made me into!”

Bucky’s self-loathing was palpable, and a part of Steve wanted shake Bucky and tell him that he was still handsome, wings and all; that it didn’t undermine Steve’s faith in him.  But who was he to tell Bucky what he was allowed to feel?  Steve sure as hell had tuned out all of Bucky’s protests back in the 30s when he’d insisted he was a catch, even though he could count his ribs through his undershirt and his backbone bore a strong resemblance to a question mark.  It would come across exactly the same as it had to Steve in the day: placation and pity, especially now.  Steve considered his words carefully, “During the war, we were looking for a cure.  _If_ that’s what you want, maybe it’s not too late.”  

Bucky stilled, his brows knitting and his eyes searching back and forth.  “Master Fairbanks said there was no cure, he said-” Bucky swallowed back the rest of what he was going to say.  “Master Fairbanks twisted the truth about a lot of things,” he conceded hesitantly, and Steve flinched internally seeing a sheen of sweat across Bucky’s brow. They must have had him all kinds of twisted up if Bucky was still giving any consideration at all to something Hydra told him.   

“I can throw a Hydra agent a hell of a lot further than I’d trust any of them.  I’m sure that they would have told you anything if they thought it would get you to break, Buck,” Steve said gently.  

“Maybe.”  Bucky expelled a breath, visibly trying to steady himself.  “Being human again…” He ran his right hand over the segmented plates of his left, “You think it’s possible?”  A fragile glimmer of hope kindled in Bucky’s eyes when he looked back up to Steve.  

“I don’t know, but it’s hard to believe anything’s impossible any more.  I keep thinking nothing else will surprise me in this future, and I’ve lost more bets on that than I care to admit,” Steve blew out a breathy chuckle.  “I lost ten bucks to Fury two weeks into the future when I thought I’d already seen it all.  Then aliens landed and I got on a flying aircraft carrier.”  His anecdote seemed to be having a further calming effect on Bucky, thank God.  “The real question is where do we start?  During the war we were looking for Zola’s book, but that was nearly a century ago.”  

Bucky’s mouth twitched.  “I remember the book.  If anything has the cure, that would be it.”  His brows knitted, eyes drifting to the right, “Master Fairbanks had it, and I know Master Lukin did after him.  I don’t know where it is now, but I do know where they were keeping me in D.C.: A vault in the Ideal Federal Savings Bank in Crystal City.”

It was a struggle to keep the flinch off of his face at the irony that Bucky had literally been stored in a bank vault like some valuable commodity.  “It’s a start,” Steve said with a faint smile. “Sometimes, that’s all you need.  That and a friend.”  Steve set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Steve, I couldn’t ask you-“

“You’re not asking, I’m volunteering,” Steve spoke over Bucky’s protests. “Besides, even if we don’t find the book there, a Hydra facility where you were being kept will probably have more intel, and maybe even some evidence we can use to start trying to clear your name.”

A dubious frown tugged at Bucky’s mouth, but he didn’t protest.  

The Captain in Steve took hold, “I’ll start putting something together.  We’ll need transportation, equipment, blueprints of the location of course-“ 

Bucky cut him off.  “What I really need right now is a fucking cigarette.  How about we talk about this when it isn’t ass in the morning?”  Bucky glanced over to Steve, tipping his head with a smarmy smile peeled right out of Steve’s memories of the war – with a few extra fangs, “Don’t worry, I won’t smoke in your fancy digs.  I need some fresh air anyway.”

“Right, of course,” Steve conceded.  But once his mind kicked into planning mode, it was hard to tamp it back down.  “But, I have to ask – do you want to keep this op to just the two of us?  I have allies – _friends_ – I could call in on this.  Sam’s a good guy, trustworthy.  I’d really like to introduce you, and having some back-up wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

Bucky shoved to his feet, tail wrapping around his leg before he pulled his sweatpants on over his boxers. “I don’t know, Steve.  We kind of already met, and I don’t think I made the best first impression.”  Bucky hesitated, frown digging divots into his face as he looked back over and settled on Steve’s best hangdog impression.  “I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks, Buck. That’s all I’m asking.”

“ _In the morning_ ,” He amended before blowing out a breath and squeezing his eyes shut.  This time, when the air shimmered around him, his demonic features disappeared like a reflection on a rippling pond leaving only the dark, armored left arm.  Bucky fished out a jacket from the pile, checking the pockets until he had located an open pack of Camels.  “You know they don’t even make Lucky Strikes anymore?  Damn travesty,” he continued, as if he hadn’t just done _magic._

“Can I ask how you do it?” Maybe it was prying, especially after the night Bucky had, but keeping his mouth shut was never one of Steve’s strengths.

“Do what?”  Bucky blinked at him, “Smoke?  I would’a figured you knew how after those asthma cigs you used to use.  I thought I was the one with memory gaps.”  It was honestly difficult to tell if Bucky was joking or not.

“No, you jerk, that… illusion?” 

“Oh,” he fixed Steve with a grimace and gestured to his body.  “It’s kind of hard to explain.  It’s like…” he waved a hand in a circular motion, “…sucking in a breath, but with energy instead of air.  Imagine if you could pull your blood inwards away from your extremities.  Kinda like that.  I’m shit at explaining it, I’m sure.”

Steve shrugged, “You’re doing better than I could. This is literal magic, Buck.  Like _The Hobbit._ ”

Bucky scoffed, “More like _Terror Tales_.”  Then, he paused, levying a hairy eyeball in Steve’s direction, “You’re not trying to get me to appreciate this, are ya, Steve?”

“Why would I do that?” Steve lifted his brows in mock-insult. 

“Mm hmmm,” Bucky hummed dubiously.  “Anyway, I can’t make my arm look right, though, unless I get rid of it altogether.”  He hesitated for a moment before wincing.  Light wrinkled around him again, and when it settled, his left arm was missing entirely, leaving him with just a scar-riddled stump of his shoulder with an inflamed pentagram scar in its center.  “I think it’s cause I lost it in the fall.”  Bucky’s eyes dropped to his feet when he saw the flicker of a pain on Steve’s face. “I can hide the extra bits, but not make them look different.”

“Does it hurt?” Steve asked weakly.

Bucky gave a one-armed shrug in response.  “It doesn’t _hurt_.  It’s like forcing a smile: I’ve gotta focus on keeping it up, and after a while it feels achy and hollow.  I’m pretty good at holding it for a while, but it drops if I fall asleep or go unconscious.  I can’t move the limbs I’m guising while it’s active, so they get restless and sore – like they’ve gone to sleep.”

“Can I touch?” Steve asked hesitantly, oddly fascinated by the process.  

“You can try,” the barest hint of a rueful smile appeared on Bucky’s lips.

Steve reached over, running his hands across Bucky’s head, feeling for his horns.  But for some reason, he watched his fingers avoid the areas he knew the horns to be.  

“It’s weird, I know,” Bucky narrated.  “I can’t wear hats unless I cut holes in them, or it breaks the illusion when my horns tear through them.  I can’t use my claws or horns or the same thing happens, but people won’t run into my wings or tail or anything.”  
  
“That’s amazing, Buck.  But it still fools video cameras?  How does that work?”  
  
Bucky snorted, “Fuck if I know.  I know how to do it, but I don’t know _how_ it happens.  I’m not a goddamned wizard.”  His left arm rematerialized with a shudder, and Bucky gathered up a shirt and pair of gloves.  

“Seems like it to me,” Steve smiled fondly.  “Bucky, you know you don’t have to hide from me, right? Especially just around the apartment.” 

Bucky hesitated halfway through shrugging on his coat, mouth twisting.  “I need a smoke, Steve.  I’ll talk to you in the morning.”  He brushed past Steve, but his steps faltered when he got to the doorway.  He rested a hand on the door frame, glancing back.  “I’ll keep it in mind, OK?  Maintaining the guise can be exhausting, but,” Bucky shook his head with a shiver, “I feel different like that.”

“Of course, Buck.” Steve murmured.  His heart ached to reassure him, but he recognized the shuttered look that locked over Bucky’s eyes: he was already checked out.  There had been nights he drug himself back from work, worn to the bone, wearing that expression.  Steve could have told him that he won the lottery and he wouldn’t have gotten so much as a smile out of him.  Bucky may not have been doing any heavy lifting tonight, but that didn’t mean he was any less exhausted after the emotional wringer he’d just gone through.

Steve watched him trudge out to the balcony, the brief flicker of a lighter, and then the dim, oddly reassuring glow of a cigarette.  

  
There was zero chance Steve was going to get back to sleep that night.  Instead, he opened up his laptop and got to work: they had an assault on a Hydra facility to plan, and damn if that didn’t feel familiar in the best possible way.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [JueFeiFei](https://juefeifeifei.tumblr.com/) for the amazing scene illustration!  .  
> Also, have a "Steve Sketch" of Bucky's wings and how they sheath/appear when they're flush against his back!  
> [heh, I know I've sketched this before but felt weird reposting one from Dragging you Down that was in theory something a Hydra agent drew ;) So here's a more loving design that Steve drew, (and let me refine the design a bit )


	16. Chapter 16

  
Bucky never did get back to sleep that night, but a good three hours of nightmare-riddled sleep was still arguably better than none.  Still, the experience left him shaken.  The ghost of First Lt. Anthony Prewitt had paid him a visit in his dreams, and now, even awake, his specter still haunted him.  The unfortunate Marine was dead because Bucky couldn’t stop himself from obeying a direct command.  Worst of all, Bucky had been mentally _present_ when he had been thrown into a cell with Prewitt and used his pheromones against him.  He’d been starving, at the mercy of his succubus nature, but just because he couldn’t stop himself didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible for what had happened.  Steve saw him for what he was physically and hadn’t balked, but did he realize his demonic nature was much more than skin-deep?  What if something like _that_ happened again?  What if he were trapped somewhere, injured, and went into a heat around someone who didn’t want it?  Even now, free of Hydra, he was still a potential threat to people around him.  To Steve.    

The nightmarish memories kept playing on repeat as he looked out over the sluggish, black waters of the early-morning harbor.   Bucky let himself soak in the reassuring presence of the Brooklyn Bridge poised above him like a watchful sentinel.  Recovering memories proved to be a double-edged sword; for every new memory he reclaimed, it only caused Bucky to realize how much was still missing from the puzzle of his past.  Every time he thought he couldn’t uncover a memory that was any worse than his current collection, he managed to surprise himself.  God only knew what still lay hidden in the minefield of his mind.  

Like it or not, more and more of his time as the Winter Soldier was coming into focus: his full year under Hydra’s thumb before the wipes began, the horrific things he’d been forced to do _with full mental capacity_ while he could only watch in horror, of being deliberately starved and beaten into heats until he begged for relief.  Perhaps the most pervasive was the skeevy “relationship” with his first Master, Fairbanks, and the way his honeyed words wormed into his head after he’d been stripped of every possible inkling of hope.  When he first escaped, Bucky was convinced he wanted to unlock all of his repressed memories, but the more he remembered of Bucky Barnes pre-fall, or hell, even pre-war, the more distant that enthusiastic, charming, considerate rake seemed.  Be careful what you fucking wish for.  

Cigarettes didn’t take the edge off like they used to, but even going through the motions, the taste of tobacco and pleasant heat of smoke on his throat, helped ground him in the present.  The chapter of his life with Hydra was closed, and so help him he was _never_ going back.  However, he _was_ ready to face them.  He feared if he ever wanted to try to move forward and have a life again, he had to.  

But even if he found the book, even _if_ it had a cure, he couldn’t cure his past.  

*

Bucky had known Sam Wilson for a grand total of two minutes and already he simultaneously wanted to throw him a party and punch him in the face.  Depending on how the rest of this meeting went, maybe both. 

It had started off well enough: Sam had shown up with a box of fresh donuts and a charming smile that only wavered a little when Bucky cautiously poked out of his room.  Not that he could blame the guy: he _had_ torn the steering wheel out of his car while he was driving it and ripped off one of his mechanical wings midair.  Guy was lucky to have survived one encounter with the Winter Soldier, let alone two.  No - scratch that - not lucky: the guy was smart and good at what he did.  There was a good reason Steve had allied himself so quickly with this ex-PJ… and why he’d taken such a shine to him.  

Steve had explained how he met Sam before Bucky had agreed to this meeting.  The way he described him, it sounded like Steve thought the man had hung the moon.  And to be fair, Bucky _should_ be taking his hat off to Sam for being there for Steve when he’d woken up in the hospital, and before that: for trying to coax him out of his morose shell.  Hell, he’d even picked up and moved to New York in anticipation of doing even more.  There was no denying that Sam was better equipped to help Steve than Bucky, whose mind was about as well collected as a herd of feral cats.  Instead, he felt the same weight drop in his stomach as when he’d first seen Steve forget how to use his words around Peggy.  

He slunk into the kitchen with a scowl that could curdle milk and snatched a donut before even saying something like “Thank you” or “Hello.”  His ma would have been scandalized.  

“Oh, okay, no – that’s cool man, take the only chocolate-filled one.” Sam said without a hint of self-preservation.  

“Guess that’s your mistake for only bringing one.” Bucky fired back, taking a big bite of what turned out to be the sweetest, most fucking delectable thing he’d ever had.  Fuck that fancy five-dollar hot chocolate.  He didn’t underplay his reaction; instead he moaned around the confection, lording just how good the donut was with every inch of his face.  

Steve beamed, overjoyed that his two friends were getting along so well. 

Sam’s eyes snapped to Steve with a look of mock-accusation, “Steve!  You never told me Barnes was an asshole.”  

Bucky paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing at Sam.  But before he could get out a ‘the fuck you saying?’ Steve raised his brows and smirked. “I thought that went without saying, he _is_ my best friend.”  _Is_.  Present tense.  Bucky felt his witty retort die in his throat.

“Good.”  Sam nodded and hooked a finger through the center of a donut, pointing it right in Bucky’s face.  “Keeping it 100, I didn’t know what to expect from you.  I sure as hell couldn’t take Steve’s word on how you were doing – no offense, Steve, but you’re biased.  But piss and vinegar?  That I can deal with,” Sam finished, twirling the donut around his finger before taking a bite from it.

“I’ll remember you said that,” Bucky said loftily, sucking the sticky remains of donut from his fingers.

“Will you though?”  Sam tapped the side of his head with a smirk.  

Oh, they had a real joker on their hands here.  Still, Bucky couldn’t help but be a bit impressed.  Sam had seen him at his worst in D.C., so Bucky had fully prepared himself for the man to treat him like he was on the bomb squad: gently and scared of setting him off.  Instead, Sam didn’t hesitate giving him shit, and that took guts.  No wonder Steve liked him.  “Yeah, Steve told me about the heat stroke you gave yourself when you two first met because you were dumb enough to try to keep up with him.” 

“Aw man- Steve! – what the hell!?” Sam turned to him with a look of betrayal. 

Steve laughed, holding up his hands in surrender, “Just telling it like it is.”

Sam turned back to Bucky, “Look, whatever he told you about me isn’t true.  I never broke Steve’s favorite coffee mug and I certainly never cried while watching _Up_.”

“What’s _Up_?” Bucky was already lost.  

Sam grinned like he just threw the winning pitch in the World Series.  “Not much, what’s up with you?”

Nope.  Bucky took back every nice thing he thought about Sam.  Sam was a royal pain in his ass. “I hate you,” Bucky groaned. 

“No, man, you keep walking into my set ups like that and we’re going to get along great.”  Sam snagged a stool and took a seat at the counter.  “Seriously, though, Steve – if he hasn’t seen _Up_ yet, I will pay you twenty dollars to be a part of that.  I would personally like to be there for the world’s greatest assassin breaking down into ugly crying during an animated movie.”

“What makes you so sure I’ll cry?” Bucky asked wryly.

“Dude.  _Everyone_ cries for _Up_.  You don’t cry, you don’t have a soul.” 

Steve shrugged helplessly, “I cried like a baby.”

“No shit?”  Bucky was sorry that he missed out on witnessing that; Steve hadn’t even cried when he’d gotten his first 4F.  

“Here, I’ll make you a deal, Barnes: we’ll watch _Up_ , I’ll bring the beer and enough take-out to feed a small army, and if you don’t cry, I will personally make you an award for being the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.  I’m talking the whole nine yards: engraved plaque on a wood backing, and me making a completely embarrassing proclamation to you, Steve, and anyone else you want.”

“And if I do?” Bucky asked warily, but a smile was already playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“If you do, then I get to call on you for rides until I either get a new wingpack or a new car.  Since you kind of broke _both_.”  Part of Bucky was surprised that bringing up his wings or the car hadn’t been the first words out of Sam’s mouth when he’d show up; the other part of him was impressed he’d brought it up at all.  

“I don’t have a car,” Bucky hesitated.  

“That sounds like a you-problem.” Sam grinned.

Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth, working loose the last stubborn bits of donut caught between them and to hide his answering smile.  “Fine.  It’s a deal - _but_ not until after the mission.”  

“After the mission,” Sam agreed, smiling like he’d just won a round of poker with a pair of 2’s, and suddenly, they were shaking hands.  It was a simple gesture, but one so human Bucky ached with appreciation.  

Sam clapped his hands, “So what are we looking at?” he asked, getting down to business and sliding aside his sugar-coated napkin.  “You said that there was a Hydra facility smack in the middle of D.C. that needed some ass-kicking?  

Steve spread out a set of bank blueprints on the counter.  “Our target is the Ideal Federal Savings Bank.  Upstairs is still a functioning bank, and at least three-quarters of the employees up there have no idea that they’re working in a front for an international terrorist organization.  The goal is to maintain the element of surprise as long as we can and avoid citizen involvement.”  
  
Bucky traced a finger over a section of the map, a cold shroud of Mission Mode settled on his shoulders.  “There is direct basement access via the parking garage where the armored trucks do their pickups and drop offs.  That was typically how they moved me in and out of the facility.”  

Sam nodded, “Believe me, I’m down for it, but it’s been over a month since Insight.  Are you sure that there’s going to be anything left at this place?”

Steve blew out a breath.  “I can’t find any evidence that this location has been compromised by the data dump yet.  They’re still combing through reams of files.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, “Wait, what?  Data dump?”

Steve ran a hand down his face with a groan, “Shit.  You wouldn’t know about that, would you?  When we learned just how far Hydra had infiltrated SHIELD, we made the decision that it all had to go down.  Natasha was able to get access to all of Fury’s and Pierce’s files from the SHIELD server and dumped it onto the internet.”  
  
“ _Excuse me?_ ”  Bucky gaped at Steve, “ALL of their files.  On the internet.”  Bucky let loose a string of expletives in Russian.  “I have been living here for fucking _weeks_ and you only – just now – thought to tell me about this?”  Paranoia grabbed Bucky by the back of the neck. “Christ!  I went out!  People could have recognized me!  It’s probably only a matter of time till people know who the fuck I am… till they think to check Steve Rogers’s goddamned apartment for _Bucky Barnes_ ,” he said between quick, panicked breaths.  He’d have to leave here and go back into hiding!  He was deceiving himself that he had been safe here!

“IF identifying information was ever in Hydra’s digital files, Buck!” Steve was quick to counter.  “There’s millions of pages of data, and most of it was encrypted.  The _only_ passages I’ve found that have been decrypted that breathed any mention of you,” Steve paused, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well, let’s just say they didn’t use your real name,” he finished with a flinch.  

_Don’t say anything more – don’t argue back with Master – it will only lead to pain and punishment._

He curled in on himself.  Maybe – _maybe_ Steve was right and Hydra had been paranoid enough to keep his original identity solely in hard copy.  

No!  _Fuck_ that!  Bucky shook his head, furious.  What was he thinking?!  Goddamn it, he had the _right_ to be angry!  He couldn’t believe Steve; that much information out there, how in the hell were they still just sitting here?  No wonder Steve had been so antsy to get ahead of this.  _Fuck!_ Half the intelligence agencies of the world probably already knew who he was.  “Are you naive or just that fucking stupid?!” Bucky snapped, an animalistic rumble in his throat.  “I’m putting all of you at risk!” 

Sam tensed at Bucky’s growl, glancing between the two of them, worry etched over his face.  

“Bucky, I would _never_ let them hurt you.” Steve insisted, matching Bucky’s tone.  “Have you considered that I know what I’m doing?  I _have_ been working in an intelligence agency for the past three years-“

“Yeah!  And you didn’t even know when your goddamn apartment was bugged!”

“My point is that I have connections, Buck.  If anyone thinks of making a move on me, I’m going to know about it.” Steve drew himself up, voice taking on the infuriating Captain America tone.  

“Connections that know I’m here?!”  Panic crept back into Bucky’s tone.

“No!”  Steve protested, but at Bucky’s narrowed eyes, Steve’s conviction faltered, “I don’t think so.”  

“This isn’t a damn game, Steve!” The growl lingered in Bucky’s voice, punctuating his words.  “There are still people out there that will stop at nothing to see me re-enslaved or put down.  I shouldn’t have come.”  He dug his fingers into his hair.  

“What’s the point of all of this – of you getting away and getting _free_ if it’s only to live under a rock and be afraid of letting yourself live again, Buck?  That isn’t freedom, that’s just a prison of your own design.”  Steve waited until Bucky’s eyes tentatively flicked up to meet his.  “Besides, I can help you better when we have resources and allies.  We’ve always been stronger together; tell me I’m wrong.”

Bucky worked his jaw, surprised at the cold fear that poured down his back at the idea of parting ways with Steve again after everythinghe’d gone through to get him back.  Maybe staying here was risky, but they’d be more likely to know in advance if something was headed their way.  Tracking down leads or mounting an offense _would_ be easier when not living in a bolt hole.  Anyway, Steve going off the grid would draw more attention than anything, and Bucky couldn’t make Steve leave all this just for his sake. 

Sam’s posture eased when he realized that raised tension and voices wouldn’t turn into blows.  He settled a new look over Bucky, seeming to reconsider something before he nodded. “You two good?”

“You should have told me about the dump earlier,” Bucky said, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You’re right.” Steve conceded with a sigh. “I didn’t want to give you another thing to worry about, and I thought I had it covered.”  He hesitated a moment before giving Bucky a genuine look, “I’m sorry.”

Sam let their begrudging silence hang for a few uncomfortable moments before steering the conversation back onto the rails, “O…kay.  So assuming we’re still doing this, we’ll just have to assume the worst.  Although, I don’t know which that is: that the facility has already been cleared out or that they’ve doubled down on security.”

Bucky took a steadying breath, “Steve, do you have any way to confirm Hydra activity at the location?  Or determine if the building is going to be crawling with feds?”

“I could make a call to check on the latter.  It will still just being the three of us going in, Buck, but let me reach out to Natasha.  I know she’s keeping a finger on the pulse of the intelligence agencies.”  

Bucky shared a silent look with Steve before finally nodding decisively.  “Fine.  Make the call.  Assuming the coast is clear, we’re still doing this.”

“And you still good with playing back-up on this, Sam?”  Steve asked.

“Damn straight I’m coming, and I am excellent back-up.  But just so you know: I’m an even better wingman.  Real shame about my wings.” Sam eyes hung pointedly on Bucky.  

Bucky winced.  “Believe me, pal – I’d give you mine if I could.”  

“Don’t joke about that: I’d be tempted to take you up on that offer.  Wings that can’t be taken from you?  You don’t know how lucky you are.”  Sam said wistfully.

Bucky’s mouth formed an unimpressed, flat line.  “You don’t know what you’re asking for.  Trust me, they came with a steep fucking price.”

“I’m sure they did.  I’m just saying you can’t know how much you miss flying till your wings are gone.  Trust me: when you’re grounded - and for a _second_ time at that – you feel that absence in your dreams, in your _soul_.”  
  
Bucky felt like a _real_ heel now.  “I’m sorry.”  He should have said that a lot sooner, and it wasn’t nearly enough.  

“Hey, like Steve said – it wasn’t your fault.” Sam said softly after a few moments’ pause.  

Maybe someday he’d believe that, but not today.  The memory of swooping down on Sam like a hawk and ripping him out of the skies was undamaged by any wipes.  He’d felt _proud_ of himself for that stunt.  Bucky shook his head, “Still – I’m going to do what I can to see that you get them back.”

 “I want a rematch up there, Barnes.  Hell, maybe I’ll even be nice and teach you a thing or two while I’m kicking your ass,” Sam said with a nod of approval.  

Bucky surprised himself with a chuckle, “Yeah, okay, you’re on.”

“Hey, besides,” Steve interjected awkwardly, “This op is going to target a basement facility.  Wings probably won’t even be helpful here anyway.”

Sam scowled back, “Dude you do _not_ know that.  That EXO pack was good for _so_ much more than just flying.  I will show you some day just how handy those things are – even in close quarters.”  Sam punctuated his words with a finger-pokes to Steve’s chest.  

“I look forward to it,” Steve positively mooned at Sam.  That sure as hell sounded like innuendo to his ears and jealousy twisted, eel-slippery, in Bucky’s gut.  

“Questions?” Bucky blurted, interrupting the eyes that they were making at each other.    

Sam blinked, caught off guard.  “Well, a lot really, but the big one is what are we after?”  

Bucky felt like a horse’s ass for interjecting, but only a little.  He leaned forward on his elbows, eying the layout.  “Aside from disrupting whatever Hydra operations might still be going on, our main objective is finding and securing a book.”  

“I’m guessing that this isn’t just any book, otherwise I could save us all a lot of time and effort by introducing you to Amazon.”

Bucky shot Sam a withering look, “No.  It’s some kind of – I don’t want to call it a spellbook, but I don’t have a better way to describe it.  It’s red, leatherbound, has a black pentagram on the cover.”  Bucky gestured with his hands about the size of it.

“Please tell me it’s not bound in human flesh,” Sam winced.

“I…”  Bucky flinched, “God, I hope not, but I can’t make any promises.”

Sam eyed Bucky’s left hand – the only bit of his arm not covered by the long-sleeved Henley he was currently sporting.  “What’s in it?  Can I ask why you’re looking for it?”

“I’ve only ever seen a page or two of it from a distance,” Bucky admitted, absently tugging the sleeve down over his fingers.  “It’s at least partially written in Latin, and there are some diagrams in it.  There are rituals described in it that they used to change me and to bind me to them.  Presumably, there’s a lot more about my-“ Bucky hesitated, reluctant to even say the word, but forcing himself to power through, “ _demon problem_ in that book, and I feel like I’m kind of entitled to have that information.  But mainly, I figure if there’s anything that can be used to cure me, it’s going to be in there.”

Sam was quiet for a few moments, studying Bucky’s face before speaking up, “So you don’t actually know what it says in there about what you are?”

“For some reason Hydra wasn’t exactly keen on sharing with me what they were fucking doing to me.”  Bucky snipped.  

Sam shook his head, “I just don’t know about the whole demon thing, man.  I mean, what do you _really_ know?  It’s not like you’ve ever actually seen hell, right?”

“Yeah.  Seventy years of it.” Bucky countered, his voice ice.  

He saw the blow land on Sam’s face.  “Okay, yeah, I deserved that.  But for real, you sure you’re up to going back in?” 

Bucky nodded, dead-serious.  _I can do this._   “I did fuck knows how many missions with my brain fried.  I can do this.”

Steve set a hand on his shoulder, “And you won’t be alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> This ADORABLE artwork is by the talented [mgnemesi](http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com/) !  
>  This was a gift from Superheroresin / [ resinona03](https://resinonao3.tumblr.com/)\- who is the creator/author of the Snow Leopard Bucky here - if you haven't already, you should check out the fanfic he is from - a truly well-crafted and wonderfully written epic with amazing worldbuilding (that has been recently completed!), [Something Wild Calls You Home ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312707/chapters/21106421)!  
>  [ You can reblog the art on tumblr here](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/176307232673/resinonao3-mgnemesi-a-few-weeks-ago)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!   
> Had to do a chapter update on Halloween - hope you all have a safe and happy holiday!

For the fifth time since they crossed the city limits of Washington D.C., Bucky adjusted the straps across the front of his leather jacket.  Had they always been this tight around his chest?  Had wearing the mask always felt so cloying?  His humid breath came in short pants, trapped in the muzzle secured around the bottom half of his face.  He knew this pretense was a key part of the plan, hell, it was his own goddamned plan, but he hadn’t anticipated how suiting back up in the full tactical uniform and strapped into the back of an armored truck would catapult him back into the cage of the Winter Soldier.

Looking out the window didn’t do any good.  The familiar sequence of streets that led to the bank felt like a march to the gallows.  Even closing his eyes couldn’t stop his tactical brain from noting the sequences of turns as the vehicle drew closer.  

_Eight minutes till destination.  “You know the drill, Soldier: return to base for your debriefing, maintenance and refueling.”  Even with his eyes shut he could hear the sense grin on STRIKE leader Rumlow’s face and feel the way his eyes hungrily roved over his body.  A successful mission had earned him a feeding before his inevitable return to the frigid containment cell, and his body prepared itself.  His cock stirred, and a flush of moist warmth collected beneath him, making him want to squirm in his seat-_

Bucky tore the mask away from his mouth, gasping for cool, sobering air.  

“Hey, you okay?” Steve asked gently, putting a grounding hand on his knee.  “You don’t have to do this, Buck.”

He blew out his tension in a long exhale.  “Yes I do.”  His voice was a lot steadier than his nerves.  “Besides, your idea of a covert op is a slightly less spangly uniform when you go barreling into a facility.”  Talking.  Talking helped.  The Winter Soldier rarely spoke when it wasn’t mission critical.  

“He’s not wrong, Cap,” Sam called from the driver’s seat, where he wore a security hat pushed low over his brow.

“Hey Buck, do you remember the op in Germany when you and the rest of the Howlies were crammed in the back of that Hydra supply truck?  I think I did all right back then?” Steve grinned.  
  
The memory exploded into his mind like fireworks: “All right?  _All right!?_   Even wearing a German uniform, you couldn’t act to save our lives!  Your shitty accent nearly got us killed at the checkpoint if it wasn’t for Dernier whipping up an explosive distraction on the fly!”  Bucky shook his head, “Jesus Christ, I’d forgotten all about that – how in the hell did you make it in SHIELD?”

Steve was beaming now, and okay – so sinking back into amemory from before Hydra was helping.  “I do all right for myself!” Steve said, like a goddamned idiot.  

“Sure, with the Widow on your team.” God bless Samuel Wilson taking his side.  

“I’m a quick study!” Steve said matter-of-factly, realizing he was being ganged up on.  “But come on – it wasn’t a bad plan, and in hindsight I think it went pretty well!”  

“I seem to remember you refusing to let anyone else drive because YOU wanted to be the one to take the riskiest position.”  The memory shone brighter in his mind, illuminating the rest of the event, including his uncomfortable arousal in the back of the truck surrounded by his friends.  It had seemed like the worst possible coincidence when sex became the topic of conversation.  In retrospect, he realized it was his pheromones that had been affecting them, but that had been before Bucky had any inkling of the depth of his condition.  He hadn’t even fed for the first time yet.  “Besides, sixty miles in the back of a transport vehicle that reeked of Hydra experiments and body odor wasn’t exactly my idea of a Sunday Drive.”

“Okay you two geezers,” Sam interrupted, unable to wipe the grin off of his face, “we’re getting close.”

It had been over a month since he had gone AWOL.  However, Bucky was hedging his bets that the Winter Soldier returning to HQ in full tac gear and escorting his target, Captain America himself, would make any Hydra guard hesitate.   That was all they should need to get in.  

*

The act bought them nearly three full minutes.  Enough time to get out of the van with Sam bringing up their rear.  Initially, Sam had raised concerns that his presence might be a tip-off, but it hadn’t mattered.  All eyes fixed on the visage of the Winter Soldier with a gun trained on Captain America himself and the shield slung across his back like a trophy.  At a glance, the manacles binding Steve’s wrists appeared to be the heavy duty maglocks that Hydra used to restrain the super soldier in the past.  In truth, it was amazing what you could put together from materials found at a Brooklyn craft store and Steve’s painting skills.  

“M-mission report!” One of the soldiers manning the guard station spluttered after nearly swallowing his tongue.  

“Primary mission objective: apprehension of level six target designation Captain America successful.” The words fell out of his mouth with programmed precision, leaving the taste of bile in their wake.  “Failed to complete the objective within the mandated 48-hour window.  Submitting for debriefing, maintenance, and disciplinary action.”

The pair of guards warily exited the booth.  The moment they were past the range of the sentry cameras, one of them reaching for the radio, Bucky whipped the shield off of his back and sent it hurtling towards the pair in one smooth motion, while Steve easily snapped the phony cuffs and closed the distance. 

The pair was down by the time the shield clattered onto the concrete.  They didn’t even have to fire a shot, which surely would have blown their cover.  

“Well, I guess that answers our first question: Hydra’s still here.” Steve breathed.  

“Man, that is like the oldest trick in the book – I can’t believe these assholes fell for it.” Sam grinned, relieving the unconscious soldiers of their weapons and zip-tying their wrists behind their backs.  

“People believe what they want to be true,” Steve said, sliding his arm through the straps of the shield.   

Bucky nodded, “They would have had to answer for some serious shit if they opened fire on me without a good reason.  Getting back The Winter Soldier with Captain America alive?  That was too big of an opportunity for them to pass up.”

“We’ll debrief after the mission is complete,” Steve said in his Captain voice, and Bucky shot him a sneer from behind the mask.  “We can’t expect our intrusion to go unnoticed for long.  Bucky: take the lead.  Time to find out if your security codes still work.”

Bucky held his breath after entering the series of numbers into the panel by the steel doors.  He hadn’t so much remembered the code as found that bit of information filed in his mind alongside the specs of automatic weapons and parkour techniques.  With a buzz, the light flashed green and the door slid open, bathing Bucky in the chilling scents of floor polish, chrome, money, and the ghost of ozone that nearly locked his muscles.  

_I’m in charge.  This is my mission._

A long hallway bathed in a sickly greenish-yellow light stretched out before them, and it felt like stepping into a nightmare.  He could all but hear the chair’s electronics cycling up, feel the reaching tendrils of cold from the cryotank.  

_I can do this.  Pierce is dead; they have no hold over me!_

But it wasn’t his mantra that dispelled the chills racing up his arms; it was the familiar footfalls treading just behind him.  As they began to move down the hall in formation, muscle memory so deeply ingrained into Bucky’s being that it came as naturally as breathing took over, and Bucky fell into step with Steve.   The mask hid his smile, but his heart fluttered so loudly Steve must have heard it, and when he risked a glance back over his shoulder, he saw his smile echoed on Steve’s face.  

_I have Steve._

Sam rolled his eyes and pumped a fist once in the air– _Hurry up!_   

As a unit, they moved forward, sweeping the hallway and checking doors.  Lights were on and the distant hum of computers signaled that the facility was in use, but there should have been more people.  Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a terrible one.  What if they had been spotted on a security camera and Hydra soldiers had set up an ambush?  Maybe his outdated security code had triggered some kind of warning. Or maybe the smattering of guards were all that was left and the rest of the rats had scattered after Insight day.

The bank’s basement level wasn’t large, but held a gridlike series of hallways leading to the vault.  Doorways opened into innocuous-looking offices housing tall filing cabinets and outdated computers that would be checked more thoroughly after the floor was cleared.  The muscle in Steve’s jaw jumped when the next door opened to reveal a laboratory – the machines quiet and equipment wrapped in plastic.  Bucky shook his head, and signaled to continue.  

They were halfway to the vault when shit hit the fan.  

Simultaneously, the elevator dinged to the right and door to the stairwell banged open to their left.  Armed STRIKE agents flooded into the hallway in a pincer movement.  

If maneuvering in a tactical formation alongside Steve was familiar, springing into combat was a dance that Bucky already knew all the moves to by heart.  He drew their fire away from Sam; knowing hanging back and taking pot-shots would only make them both sitting ducks.  He didn’t even have to glance back to know Steve was on the same page and had raised the shield to guard the left flank.  

Bucky flew into the fray, expertly flinging a pair of knives ahead of him into the mass still pouring out of the stairwell.  The first two bodies hit the floor with a knife buried three inches into their skulls, tripping up the men behind them long enough for Bucky to close the distance. 

The telltale _CLANG_ of the shield colliding with rifles rung out from the other end of the hall.  Steve could handle them; Bucky kept his focus on the cluster of men squeezing out of the stairwell.  

The moment the first line of soldiers caught sight of him, their faces drained of color.  That half-second pause of dreaded recognition before they lined up their shots was all he needed.  He closed his left fist around the barrel of an M4A1, not even flinching at the brief sting of pain as the gun fired into his armored hand.  He spun, ripping the gun out of the man’s hands and brought the stock around hard into the temple of the man beside him.  He flowed with the spin, letting go of the muzzle of the gun with his left hand just in time to snatch it out of the air with his right.  His fingers slid expertly into the grip with his finger on the trigger and his momentum carried him around to face the next soldier.  Bucky unloaded a burst of rifle fire right into the man’s chest.  Bulletproof vest or not, a point blank hit was going to put him out.  

Not slowing down, he slipped under the barrel of a third agent’s rifle right as he squeezed the trigger and hit his disarmed buddy center-mass.  Bucky twisted around him, hooking his neck in the crook of his left arm and squeezed until he went limp in his arms.  

A jolt of electricity bit into the back of his neck.  Some asshole had figured out that semiautomatic weapons weren’t the best in close quarters.  He grit his teeth – he’d fought through a hell of a lot worse than one stun baton - and was about to turn when a short, controlled burst of semiautomatic gunfire shot over his shoulder and dropped the STRIKE agent.  “I had him!” Bucky found himself calling indignantly back to Sam without breaking stride.

“You’re welcome!” Sam called cheerily back, another BRRT of gunfire taking the legs out from underneath a soldier on the other end of the hall taking aim at Steve.  

The shield careened towards him and on instinct, Bucky snatched it out of the air and bounced it off of the helmet of a STRIKE solder hard enough to send him to the ground and the shield ricocheting back to Steve.  

Out of nowhere, a sharp sting plunged into his shoulder.  With a snarl, Bucky turned and stomped – hard – onto the agent’s knee, snapping his leg backwards and eliciting a howl of pain as the man dropped, bleeding onto the linoleum floor.  He went to grab the man’s gun out of his hand with his tail, nearly forgetting that he was still guised.  His recovery was clumsy, barely kicking the Glock out of the man’s hand before the shot rang out, going wild.  

_Careless_! Bucky admonished himself.  Maybe he should have fought in his true form and used all the tools available to him for this fight; he had been holding back and he _knew_ it.  What would Sam and Steve think if he unleashed his full, visceral potential in front of them?   Steve might have seen a glimpse of it in D.C., but that was when Hydra was controlling him.  Anything he did now, it was on his _own_ accord.  It was both freeing and terrifying.

Suddenly broad shoulders manifested behind him, bathing Bucky in Steve’s reassuring presence.  Bucky’s stance changed, straightening out of a feral crouch and squared his shoulders.  They fell into step like the fight had been choreographed.  A red-gloved fist pounded into the face of a STRIKE agent as Bucky swept his legs, dropping him.  Steve swung his shield around to block another gunshot, not stopping until the shield slammed into the man’s face.  Bucky shadowed its arc, dancing around Steve to launch himself at the man behind him, blocking a downward sweep of a combat knife with the plating of his left arm.  He turned the block into a wrist-lock, twisting the man’s arm until he dropped the knife, and drove his right elbow hard into the man’s shoulder.  Steve followed it up with a mean right hook; he was unconscious before he hit the ground. 

The cacophony of gunshots, grunting and the slam of bodies faded into silence.  The fight was over.  

“So much for the stealth angle,” Sam sighed, switching out clips on his commandeered M4A1.

Bucky swayed on his feet; the writhing bodies and blood rising up around him like a tidal wave.  He did this.  Even free, had violence become a reflex?  His gorge rose and he had to scramble to get the mask off for some fresh goddamn air that didn’t smell like the promise of puke.  

“Buck – are you okay?”  Concern drenched Steve’s voice.   
  
“I’m fine.” Bucky snapped back a little too quickly.  

“You’ve got a knife in your shoulder, man!” Sam’s whinged with a grimace. 

Bucky wrenched it out, tossing it with a clatter onto the floor.  “It’ll heal,” he muttered dismissively.  

Steve’s eyes hung on him, the little divot of consternation appearing between his eyebrows.  

“Damn, you’re scary in a fight, Barnes.” Sam blew out a breath, flipping the safety back on on his rifle.  “Glad to have you back on the side of the angels.”  

Bucky turned around, blinking at Sam, “Are you kidding?  I got careless – I got myself stabbed.”  Had this been a mission for Hydra, he’d have been punished for that kind of oversight.    
  
Sam’s mouth twisted as he walked up to him.  “Yeah.  You do know that you make it damn hard to fire into a melee when you’re moving that fast, right?  Steve at least had the good sense to keep all the bad guys on the same side of his shield.  I could have covered you better if you weren’t bobbing and weaving through them like a fox in the henhouse.  But no, I couldn’t get a clear shot, and you got stabbed.”

“Buck, you know you’re not alone in this, right?” Steve pressed, moving to disarm and restrain the surviving STRIKE soldiers.  

Bucky ran a hand through his hair.  He’d been a damn sniper; he knew Sam’s frustration, but “Hydra usually just... _unleashed_ me.  It’s been a while since I’ve fought on a team that did more than hand me weapons.” Bucky levied a smirk at Steve, the knot in his stomach beginning to untie, “Besides, if things went tits-up enough for the sniper to have to go hand-to-hand back with the Howlies, then I wasn’t exactly expecting cover fire.”

Steve grunted, his expression tight.  He shouldn’t have said anything about how Hydra had wielded him like a damn animal because that kicked puppy look was back in Steve’s face.  “You don’t have to put yourself out there like that anymore, right, Buck?”   

“Seriously?” Bucky gaped at him, “You’re one to talk about fighting with no sense of self-preservation!” 

“Well maybe it’s about time I returned the favor!” Steve screwed up his face and puffed up the same way he had when he was five-foot-nothing after a back-alley fight – which looked ridiculous on his colossal physique stuffed into the Captain America costume.

 “Stop fucking babying me!” Bucky snapped at Steve harsher than he intended – and when the hell had they swapped places, anyway?  “I’ve been doing this for seventy goddamned years without you looking over my shoulder, okay?  I know what I can do, and I know what I can take!  You can’t drop everything in the middle of a fight just because I took a hit!”

Steve looked like Bucky had hit him.  “It’s just… I just got you back, Bucky.”  Steve murmured, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you again.”

_Christ_.  Bucky exhaled an exaggerated sigh.  _Dammit, Steve, I’m trying to be mad at you._   “Just… trust me, okay?” The plates of his arm rippled, thorns flexing pointedly.  “I held my own pretty well against _you_ , I think I can handle this.”

“So, uh, not to get in the middle of this lover’s spat, but can I at least take a look at that wound?” Sam interrupted, reaching for Bucky’s shoulder.  “I was Pararescue – I’m not a half-bad combat medic.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “Really, it’s fine.  I’ve fought through a hell of a lot worse than this.”  Steve’s head whipped back, jaw clenching.  “Besides, the floor’s not cleared-” Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky caught the subtle movement of the door to the stairwell inch open and the glint of a muzzle poke through the gap.  “GET DOWN!”  He slipped around Sam, putting his back between him and the shooter.  

A rapid series of gunshots cracked the silence, slamming into Bucky.  His guise dissolved in a shimmering haze as a bullet pinged off of a horn, sparing his skull.  Another ripped through the back of his tac uniform, stinging briefly as it crumpled against the armored plating of his back. 

“Barnes!” “Bucky!” Sam and Steve shouted in unison, and Bucky wanted to punch them. 

“I’ve got Sam – Go!” Bucky snarled at Steve. 

Steve was at the stairwell before the STRIKE agent had the chance to fire a second time, wrenching the door open so hard he tore it off the hinges.  Bucky almost felt sorry for the guy as Steve grabbed him by the front of his armored vest and threw him – _hard_ – face-first into concrete wall.  Almost. 

It was over as quickly as it started.  Steve gave one more glance back into the stair well before giving the all-clear.  

Sam, meanwhile, was frozen, staring up at Bucky.  _Fantastic_.  

“Eyes down here,” Bucky muttered, knowing perfectly well Sam was staring up at his horns.  He pushed away, shaking off the tension and dislodged the flattened bullet, dropping it with a ping onto the floor.  This time, Steve blew out a breath, eyes lingering on the bullet hole in the back of his uniform, but had enough sense not to say anything.  

“Hey – Barnes?” Sam found his voice.  “Thanks.”  

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky waved him off.  So much for keeping this under wraps.  His tail coiled anxiously around his ankle as he tried to steady his breathing.  Should he even bother to re-guise himself now?  The cat was out of the fucking bag – not that Sam hadn’t known already – but the last time he’d seen him like this he’d nearly killed him.  On the other (clawed) hand, they weren’t out of danger yet, and there were advantages to this form as much as Bucky was loathe to admit it.  

“Wait, why didn’t you do this sooner?” 

Bucky turned, gaping at Sam.  “What?”   
  
“Dude.  If you could do this the whole time, why were you not going all raising Cain on their asses?” 

“It doesn’t _bother_ you?” Bucky squinted at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sam crossed his arms.  “It bothered me when you were doing your best to field-strip my damn car while I was driving it – not when you’re taking a bullet for me.” 

Bewildered, Bucky looked between Sam’s incomprehensibly honest smile and the tiny, smug, I-told-you-so smirk on Steve’s lips.  First him, then the Howlies, and now Sam?  Apparently it took a special kind of crazy to follow Steve.  “You two are insane,” Bucky settled on.  

Steve drew up beside him, giving his left shoulder a squeeze.  “Well, I’ve been accused of worse.”

The plates shuffled down his back, “Not supposed to _agree_ with me, punk.” Bucky huffed.  “Anyway,” Bucky cleared his throat, trying to get back to business despite the fond smile stubbornly clinging to his mouth. “These were STRIKE agents – but not the Alpha team.  Either there’s another, more formidable force still here waiting, or they’re down to a skeleton crew after Insight.”

Steve nodded, securing the last of the team that were still breathing.  “I noticed there were no familiar faces here.”  
  
Dread pooled in Bucky’s stomach.  “Familiar?”

Steve grimaced. “When I was working for SHIELD, I did a number of ops with STRIKE Team Alpha.  I’d fought alongside them, gotten drinks with them after missions.  They were never the Howling Commandos, but I thought I could trust them.” Steve snorted, eyes clouding with anger.  “Then, my own team turned on me and turned out to be Hydra.  Who knows how many of those missions were furthering their goals.”

“Probably wasn’t much of a difference near the end,” Sam consoled.  “You can’t beat yourself up.  You did what you thought was right at the time, and when you learned better, you acted.”

Steve’s eyes strayed to Bucky, but Bucky turned his back.  He didn’t want him to see his face crack with the idea of Steve having fucking _drinks_ with Rollins, with _Rumlow_.  All the while Rumlow _knew_.  Sadistic bastard probably got off on the fact that he was making nice with Steve one day and then handling him on a mission the next… _feeding_ him…   “We should get a move on,” he swallowed.  

The rest of the hallways leading to the vault were clear; their quiet boot steps and a few distant groans mixed with the hum of machinery and buzz of fluorescent lights.  Bucky’s breath caught in his throat with each room they peered into, half expecting to see Rumlow’s lurid smile.  Bucky _knew_ it was just in his head, but he could swear he could feel the sizzle of a building static charge from the chair and hear the frequency of its cyclic thrumming comingled with the electrical hum of computer equipment.

They edged silently along the wall, slowing  as they neared the prison-cell-like barred gate outside the vault.  Low, nervous murmuring reached Bucky’s keen ears.  His eyes narrowed and he held up a fist, signaling Sam and Steve to hang back.  

“That was nearly five minutes ago – what do you think is going on?” A hissed whisper caught his ear and the memory of a bearded man swam into Bucky’s mind’s eye.   
  
“It’s been radio silence since then.  I told you we should have gone into the vault.  These bars aren’t going to stop gunfire!”  

The tip of Bucky’s tail twitched in anticipation.  How many times had he been bound in the chair with the Bowtied tech standing impassively over him?  
  
“And then what?  The security cams are out.  Be blind and deaf to whatever comes next?  Might as well wall yourself up in a cellar.  We should have left the country weeks ago.”  
  
“Are you – are you referencing _Poe_?  Seriously.  How did you even-” 

Bucky stepped around the corner and the next words died in the technician’s mouth.  Beard made a very undignified squeak, and both of them looked as if the boogie man had just crawled out from beneath their beds.  They stumbled backwards as Bucky strode towards them, face hard, and wrenched open the locked gate with a scream of metal – echoed by the terrified techs.  

“S-stand down Soldier!  That’s… that’s an order!” Bowtie attempted, only to get a hand around his throat for his efforts.  His eyes widened, darting to his friend.

Beard floundered, shaking hands scrambling for a stun baton on his belt.  Bucky’s tail snatched it first, whipping out of his hands to direct its crackling tip towards Beard’s throat.

“Please!” Beard stuttered, hands flying up in surrender, “Who’s your new master?  Tell them we’ll follow orders – please!”  

Bucky snapped his attention to Beard, eyes narrowing.  He tightened his grip on Bowtie, making sure that the man didn’t interrupt Beard’s frantic diarrhea of the mouth. 

Beard paled, cowing to the force of Bucky’s silent stare.  “The new head is cleaning house – I get it!” Beard stammered, “But we can get with the program!  With Secretary Pierce gone we were cut off - we didn’t know who to reach out to that wasn’t already compromised!  We were just following procedure!  We’re still loyal!  H-Hail Hydra!”

It took every ounce of Bucky’s self-restraint to not crack him across the face with the baton.  

He could kill them.  God knew they deserved it for the atrocities they’d committed in Hydra’s name.  God knew _he_ deserved justice for the times they’d strapped him down and fried his brain until he couldn’t remember his own goddamned name.  They’d made him do terrible things.  They were responsible.  The standing orders that had barred him all those years from hurting any of the fucking squid-Nazis were gone.  

His fist tightened around Bowtie’s throat until his eyes bugged, hands scrambling at his unyielding left hand as he gasped silently as a fish flopping on dry land.  

But that was the thing: he was more than just a weapon; he had a _choice_ now.  He could kill them, but he didn’t _have_ to.  They might have been Hydra – they might be evil sons of bitches that had sold their morals in exchange for whatever honeyed promises or threats Hydra had snared them with.  But they were non-combatants.  If he killed them now, he really would be the demon they made him into.  

No.  He might be a demon, but he had won back his free will and he had enough blood on his hands.    

He jerked Bowtie right up to his face and bared his teeth into a vicious snarl, “ _FUCK_ Hydra.”  He opened his hand, causing the terrified man to collapse into a heap on the floor at his feat, red-faced and gasping.  

“Ohgod…” Beard stuttered, “You’re not with – oh shit.  Oh shit.  No – listen – Hydra left us in the dark! Y-you’re right – Fuck them!  I can help you!”

The juxtaposition of the faces that had loomed over him while he had been shackled into the chair, with these soft, craven men cowering before him felt surreal.  A part of Bucky’s mind conditioned through repeated associations of pain chafed to flinch back from them, even now.  Turning the tables on them had been a dream he never hoped to realize.  “You’re damn right you’re going to help me,” Bucky growled, “First:  Code to the vault.  Now.”

Beard spewed out the combination before Bucky had even finished his sentence.  

“Who else is in the building?”  
  
“There- there was a security team… STRIKE Team Gamma.” Beard eyed the blood splatter across Bucky’s uniform. “But I swear – that’s it.  No one upstairs knows about what’s going on down here.  We’ve been under emergency procedure 17-F5: we’ve been cut off from command for security.  We’ve been waiting for instructions!”

“And where’s the book?”

“B-book?  What book?” 

“The red book.”  The ridges pressed outwards along his back.  “Black pentagram on the cover.”

“I don’t – I’m sorry! – I don’t know what you’re talking about!”  Beard looked like he was about to piss himself.

“How about you?”  Bucky aimed his glare at Bowtie.  

Bowtie held his throat and croaked, shaking his head rapidly back and forth.  

Bucky scowled, clenching and unclenching his jaw.  

“Please don’t kill us!”  Beard sobbed, “We were just following orders!”  
  
Bucky tensed.  He’d heard that before: in France, in Germany.  “That’s no excuse,” He growled, low and dangerous.

A dark stain spread across the front of Beard’s pants and a sharp smell pierced the dank room.  _Jesus Christ._     

Finally, Bucky sighed, tossing a pair of handcuffs on the floor at their feet.  “Put these on.”

They both scrambled to oblige.  

Steady footsteps approached behind him, and Bucky whipped around – only to breathe a sigh of relief: it was just Sam and Steve.  Steve, who had this dopey fucking expression on his face. “Proud of you, Buck.” 

Beard stared, gobsmacked, between Steve and Bucky.  “Buck?  But…  I always thought it was just… _oh god_.”  Somehow, Beard managed to blanch even more.

“You.  You can shut the fuck up now before I change my mind.” Beard didn’t need to be told twice.  

Bucky scowled, glancing back at Steve.  “They deserved a lot worse.”

“And they’ll get it.  They’ll get to face the _full_ repercussions for their complicity with Hydra.” Steve said, words resonant with warning.

“We leave them alive and they’ll know we were here.  Together.”  Bucky murmured, gears turning in his head. “Them and the soldiers.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Steve reassured him confidently.  “I told you I had contacts I can still trust.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Bucky murmured, turning to face the massive door of the vault.  He could do this. A spectral hand ran down his spine and sweat broke out over his brow.  It was right there, behind the door.   _Wipe it and start over_.  

He couldn’t do this!

A heavy hand materialized on his shoulder, “I’m here,” Steve’s voice rumbled low-pitch, meant only for him to here. 

Sam glanced between Bucky and Steve and the vault.  ”Hey, you guys go ahead.  I’ll take these assholes out to the others; someone should keep an eye on them.”  He must have noticed how ashen Bucky’s face had grown, but Bucky just nodded thankfully.  
  
Bucky pushed himself forward to punch in the code Bowtie had so graciously offered up.  He could feel the heavy _CHUNK_ as the massive bolt slid back into the cylinder.  The wheel spun effortlessly with a crank, and the door swung open silently.

It was precisely how he remembered it, enough so that Bucky nearly forgot how to breathe.  A sickly green light bathed the room, and security deposit boxes lined the walls like rectangular eyes fixed inwards upon the spectacle in the center.  The chair remained bolted to the floor in the center of the room, a fixed point that the rest of the building rotated around.  Even dormant and silent, it set Bucky’s teeth on edge and every bump down his back flexed into full spines.  It wouldn’t have looked out of place in Frankenstein’s laboratory.  It was at once a horrific piece of engineering and a Medieval torture device, all metal, sharp angles, and exposed wires.  At the far end of the room, a reinforced door hung ajar – beyond its cavernous threshold lay darkness and _cold_.  

> _Bucky snarled in the face of  
>  Pierce, who leaned over him with a frustratingly placid expression.  His arms   
> were weak in the glyphed manacles, but he strained against them regardless.  His   
> master had done this on purpose; he’d kept him active for nearly a week this   
> time.  He waited until he saw the cracks in his programming; waited until he saw   
> the motes of horror in his eyes when Bucky had fed from him – _serviced __  
> him.  God, was this even the first time he’d started to follow the loose threads  
>  in his mind back into the tapestry they’d come from?  No.  Oh god, no – 
> 
> _The hum of the chair grew louder as it warmed up, the crown rotating and settling over his temples._
> 
> _He couldn’t escape.  Every time he scraped together enough wherewithal to realize he was being held against his will, he had to try.  He had a responsibility to never give up, even though he knew that his attempts were useless and would only ultimately end in failure and pain.  He had to fight them, but he was so very tired of fighting._
> 
> _He almost looked forward to the wipe.  It hurt, but pain was familiar companion.  Pain faded.  The pain that he carried in his mind and in his heart when motes of his past began to flicker to life, however, could only be numbed by the chair: trading one pain for another._
> 
> _The chair took away how long he had been a prisoner.  The chair took away the realization that he was a prisoner.  It extricated everything and everyone he had lost with surgical precision.  It removed his shame and his guilt.  It destroyed the idea that there had ever been anything but servitude, that he had ever had choice.  Without memory, there was no motivation to try to escape or fight back.  It made everything simple; he had a job to do and he did it._

His back slammed into a thick wall of muscle, and Bucky spun to find himself face to face with – Steve.  He swallowed the shout of surprise before it could escape, condensing it into a strangled noise.  

“Bucky?  I’ve been calling your name!  Are you okay?” Worry painted Steve’s face, and Bucky crumpled.  

“I’d remembered before,” the words tumbled from Bucky’s mouth like marbles, “Not everything, not nearly everything.  But enough to realize I wasn’t supposed to be here.  Then they just took it away.  Wiped me.  Fuck… fuck Pierce.”  Bucky swallowed down the knot tying up his throat, “I think he got off on seeing me realize where I was-   _who_ I was - And then he’d wipe me.”  

Steve’s big arms wrapped around him and Bucky allowed himself to lean into it.  “Wiped?” Confusion snapped into anger.  “Wait: this is how they did it?  This _thing_ is why you had memory issues?”  Bucky recognized the low, dangerous tone to Steve’s voice.

Bucky pushed away.  He could smell ozone in his nose, the hair on the back of his neck prickling and his heart beat quicker in his chest.  “Every time I started piecing things back together: that Hydra was lying to me, that I was their prisoner – they put me into the Chair.”   Bucky turned to face it, cold fear boiling into anger.  “Every time they pulled me out of Cryo, still half-frozen and sluggish, they’d shove me into the chair.  A clean slate before a mission.”  Bucky’s hands balled into fists.  “It hurt,” He hissed.  

Bucky squared his shoulders and crossed the room to take hold of one of the reinforced cables leading to the chair.  “Electricity.  It made me forget.” With a snarl, he wrenched the cable out of the back of the chair; a fountain of sparks sprayed over Bucky like blood from a throat wound before the vile machine fell silent once more. 

A ripple of something primal passed through Bucky.  He seized the halo and tore it free of its moorings, hurling it like Steve’s shield into the bank of security deposit boxes.  Gold coins, data chips and sheaves of paper rained down onto the concrete floors – _concrete floors were easier to hose down the blood_.  Riding the wave of action, he gripped the seat: hardly more than a few uncomfortable cross bars, bent his knees and wrested it free of the massive screws securing it to the floor.  With a ferocious shout, Bucky slammed the chair back into the floor.  The brutal impact snapped screws and welded joints, as the chair shattered into scrapmetal.  Every ounce of rage he held back from the technicians he visited upon the chair.    

Steve held back as Bucky raged, not daring to get between Bucky and the subject of his fury nor willing to take this long overdue moment from him.  Only when the chair lay in ruins on the floor and Bucky stood panting and sweating in the center of the wreckage did Steve finally approach, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder.  “It’s over. It’s gone.  No one is going to take your memories from you again.” 

Only now, staring at the twisted metal that had once been his own private hell, did Bucky finally start to believe that he had actually escaped. 

“You were fighting the whole time.” Steve murmured with dawning realization.  

Bucky shook his head, rejecting Steve’s sympathy.  “I wasn’t.  I followed orders.  Most of the time I didn’t even realize I was a prisoner.  I just thought I was some kind of _construct_.”  

“No,” Steve corrected sharply.  “The fact they had to keep wiping you means that you never gave up fighting.”

Bucky shrugged self-consciously, but Steve’s words reverberated through his head like the crash of a cymbal.  “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”  But, it had to be the truth, didn’t it?  Even _with_ the power his masters held over him, it must not have been enough to keep him in line.  

_Good._

“You resisted them the _whole_ time, Bucky.” Steve repeated, firmer, and Bucky had to look away from the sheer brilliance of the pride shining in Steve’s eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, wiping at his running nose.  “The chair: it probably could have been evidence or something.”  

“Don’t be.  I don’t think something like this would be safe in the ‘right hands’ – if there even is such a thing.  Did you know SHIELD got their hands on the Tesseract after the war?  I found plans to adapt it into weapons, just like Schmidt had done, but on a massive scale.  Even the people who were still uncorrupted by Hydra were backing the play.  People don’t learn.  We sent the cube back into space where it belonged.  Something like this has no place in the world, either.”

Bucky frowned “If you hadn’t, then the guns on those helicarriers would have probably been loaded with worse than bullets.”  

Steve paled, “Christ, you’re right.  The plans were trying to adapt the Hydra guns into large-scale weapons...”  

Bucky swallowed, wiping his sweaty palm on his tac pants. “Speaking of plans, we should get to work.”

Steve surveyed the vault.  “How long do you think we have till we get unwanted company?”  
  
Bucky hummed thoughtfully.  “The alarms aren’t tied into the bank aboveground.  Hydra couldn’t have the police sticking their noses into their business.  If those techs weren’t lying – and I think they were too piss-scared to even come up with a lie – then this cell’s been cut off.   We should have some time.”

Bucky turned towards the safe deposit boxes.  “We should start with these.  Grab any hard drives and jump drives we can find along the way.”

Steve nodded.  “We’ll take what we can find, and then I’ll call someone in to take care of the trash.”

They allocated themselves forty five minutes of ransacking the vault and surrounding offices.  Beard and Bowtie were _quite_ forthcoming with some prime locations to check.  

The cavernous backroom beyond the vault harbored a massive weapons arsenal, stacks of hardcopy files, and the cryo chamber lurking like a frigid shadow in the corner of the room.  Bucky gave it wide berth, but his icy coffin didn’t wield the same malevolent threat that the chair had.  Even so, Steve eyed the steely beast for a full minute, jaw clenched, before he wordlessly tore the door off its hinges and moved on to help comb the vault.  However, despite the earnest efforts from Bucky, Steve, and Sam, nothing resembling the red, leatherbound book turned up.  Bucky opened and tossed aside scores of ledgers, reams of papers, and stacks of file folders hoping that maybe the cover had just been damaged over the years and the book had been discretely rebound.  No dice.  

Worse yet, Bucky _knew_ that there had been at least a few sets of glyphed manacles that had been used on him in this facility, and their distinct absence planted uncomfortable questions to fester in Bucky’s mind. 

By the time they had turned every safe deposit box upside down and torn apart the offices, Bucky was ready to climb the walls in frustration.  He unsheathed and stretched his wings, settling them against his back before repeating the motion when his bunched muscles still felt as tight as before the stretch.  

“Hey, Buck, just because the book wasn’t here doesn’t mean that there’s not information that can point us where to go next.” Steve encouraged, zipping up a duffle bag filled with data drives and hardcopy files.  

“Where have I heard that before?” Bucky grumbled.  “God, it’s Poland all over again.  We’re just going to be chasing our tails for years.”

“To be fair, you’re the only one with a tail to chase.” Sam piped up.

Bucky answered with a glare.   

Steve blew out a breath, “We knew that it might not be here.  It could have been in Pierce’s office, or maybe it was digitized years ago and what we need is somewhere on these drives.  It’s not 1944 anymore, Buck – we’ve got resources now we could have only dreamed about back then.”

Bucky dug clawed fingers through his hair, exhaling a growling sigh.  “I don’t know how you stay optimistic.”

“It’s not optimism, I just don’t give up.  Eventually, either things work out -”  

“… or you die trying,” Bucky interrupted with a scowl.

“I’ll hang back,” Sam volunteered.  “You calling Nat in to wrap this up, Steve?”  
  
Steve nodded, spying the anxious look on Bucky’s face.  “We can trust her.  She got me your files to begin with.  She’s one of the good ones.”  
  
Realistically, Bucky knew that they couldn’t keep this op to just the three of them, but that didn’t stop the icy twist of dread in his gut  “Does she know you’ve found me already?”  
  
“I haven’t told her, but knowing Nat she probably already knows,” Steve said with a helpless shrug.

“If she didn’t before, she’ll know now.” Sam nodded to the restrained Hydra agents, “but if we call her in on the front end, she’ll make sure it doesn’t leave this basement.”  

“Fine,” Bucky conceded, tension dissolving into exhaustion.  Pulling the guise around himself with a shudder, he turned to Steve.  “Let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AMAZING artwork by the immensely talented [Sula](https://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/)  
>  [ Reblog this on tumblr!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/174100112208/sulasaferoom-long-overdue-commission-for-the)


	18. Chapter 18

 

Bucky insisted on being the one to drive back to New York.  The last thing he wanted was all of Steve’s nervous post-mission energy converting into conversation that Bucky was _Not Prepared_ to deal with.  With the way Steve’s fingers kept brushing over the zipper on the duffle, it was obvious where his mind was, so instead Bucky offered Steve shotgun to get a jump on checking out the spoils from the raid.  He was considerate like that.  

The even pattern of light poles, his eyes resting on the smooth yellow highway lines helped lull Bucky into a mindless highway hypnosis.  However, after an hour or two of Steve’s frustrated grunt after frustrated grunt from plugging the jump drives into his laptop, Bucky broke the silence, “Lemme guess – they’re all encrypted.”

Steve sighed, “Yeah.  Granted, I expected this, it just means that we’re going to have to pull in more people,” he lifted his brows, looking to Bucky curiously, “Unless computer hacking is part of your skillset?”

“Nope,” Bucky said, popping the p. “Hydra didn’t want me knowing how to use a cell phone let alone know how to break security on a computer.  They taught me what a hard drive _is_ so I could grab them, but that’s the extent of it.”    

“There’s a few people I’d suggest: Nat might be able to get access, but-”  

“Tomorrow, Steve.  We’ve done enough for today, all right?”  

Steve sat back, slipping his phone back into his pocket.  He must have heard the exhaustion in his voice.  “Sure, Buck.  This can wait until tomorrow.”  He switched to paging through the hardcopy files.  Bucky was glad for the responsibility of driving to distract him from the divot growing between Steve’s brows.  

About five miles later, Steve’s face drained of color.  “Buck – this says-“   
  
Bucky cut him off, his voice hard.  “I don’t want to know.  Unless you found where the book is, I don’t want to know.”

“Okay, Buck,” Steve deflated, but granted him silence for the rest of the drive.  

*

Steve’s apartment was a welcome fucking sight.  

Though he’d destroyed the chair (and had felt amazing for the five minutes it had taken) it hadn’t rid his mind of its presence.  Remembering more about his time at Hydra hurt almost as much as the process of being made to forget.  Everything felt heavy.  A part of him wanted to just fall face first into bed, but he knew that he’d find no solace in his dreams.  Not without doing something to put himself into a better headspace.  

“Hey, Buck – I know you’re frustrated, but I really think there’s good intel here.  And honestly, some solid evidence that you were being held against your wi-”

Christ, did Steve ever turn off?  “I’m gonna take a shower,” Bucky grunted.  

As soon as he set foot into the bathroom, Bucky tore himself out of the black leather tac suit and stepped into the hot blast of water.  With a moan, he leaned against the tile, just letting the scalding water beat over him before starting to clean himself.  The splendid heat turned his bones to jelly, far different from being marched into a cryo chamber after a mission.  Unfortunately that didn’t mean his body wasn’t craving its _other_ post-mission fix.  His cock was already half-hard in anticipation.  He itched for a feeding like he used to itch for smokes, and fuck Hydra again for training his body like Pavlov’s fucking dog.  

Irritated, Bucky moved on to scrubbing himself down, avoiding that particular area.  

His shoulder had already healed from the knife wound, leaving no trace of where the blade had punctured, but it would have taxed some of his energy.  As would have maintaining his guise up for the better part of the week.  Still, while Bucky wasn’t starving or suffering the symptoms of inescapable gutter thoughts, feeding would help clear his head better than anything else.  Feeding sooner rather than later would also make sure that he didn’t put himself into the position where he was _hungry_ around Steve again.  

Rinsed clean, Bucky shut off the water and went to get dressed.  

He was bringing up the ‘Grindr’ app on his phone that Tattoos had mentioned when he strolled out into the living room, distracted by just how damn easy the future had made even _queer_ hook-ups, before he realized that Steve was still there.  Because of course he was.  He’d removed his boots and the jacket portion of his Captain America uniform, and was currently reclining on the couch.  Bucky’s eyes traveled over his tight-fitting undershirt and uniform pants.  Steve shouldn’t be as appealing as he was fresh from battle and unshowered, the bouquet of gunpowder and sweat lingering on him like cologne.  Then again, this was Steve.

“Hey Buck!  I thought maybe we could order some food, maybe watch a movie-”  Steve’s eyes went from his nice, collared shirt and jacket to his cell phone and keys in his hand.  His face fell immediately.  “You’re going out?” Steve said with a strained smile and a note of disappointment resonating through his forced upbeat tone.   

“Yeah,” Bucky clipped, frustrated by the rush of shame that heated his face.  He turned to go, but he could _feel_ Steve’s disapproval like a brand on his back.  He spun back around.  “Look, it’s not like I _like_ having to go do this!”

Steve opened and closed his mouth before standing up and meting Bucky eye-to-eye.  “Then _don’t_!” he clipped.  He took a breath, seeming to hesitate for just a moment before saying softly, “I said I would take care of you during the war.  Do you remember that?”

Bucky’s face screwed up into a twist.  And there it was.  The enormity of the elephant that had been gradually filling the apartment.  “That was _seventy years ago,_ Steve,” Bucky insisted in a harsh whisper.  “That “offer” you extended me?  I’m not holding you to that.”

“Fine, you’re not holding me to it.”  Steve reached out and tried to grab hold of Bucky’s hands, but he stepped out of reach.  Despite the rejection, Steve continued unheeded.  “I _want_ to take care of you, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head, “But _how_ can you want to even _look_ at me like… - let alone touch me – again?!  You _know_ what I had to do to survive, Steve!  Was that in those files you read through?  Do you know how Pierce touched me?  How Rumlow fucked me?!”  Bucky’s voice rose in volume with each word, landing with the force of a firebombing on Steve’s face.  His expression journeyed from numbed shock, to anger, disgust, and finally crystallized onto resolve as Steve brought his eyes up to meet Bucky’s again.  

Bucky ignored his stinging eyes, the fraying bandage finally falling apart and spewing forth the bile and self-revulsion building for decades.  “And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  You may have been chaste since then, but I have been the _opposite_ of faithful!”  

“What I hate the most is that I _trusted_ the men who hurt you, Bucky, and I was blind to it for years.  But you weren’t _unfaithful_ , Buck,” Steve couldn’t say the word.  “It was different.” 

“Different.” Bucky snorted, echoing Steve’s words back at him, dripping with disdain.  “It doesn’t matter.  Like it or not, it happened.”  He scowled, straightening the cuffs on his shirt.  “You should move on, Steve.  I’m tainted goods.”  

“What kind of person do you take me for?!” Steve said in his trademark offended, slightly higher pitched puff of his chest.  “Please, Bucky, ‘damaged goods’?!  Are you listening to yourself?  Come on, you’re my best friend!”  Steve made an aborted motion to reach for Bucky again but instead scraped his slender fingers through his own hair.  “I _know_ you didn’t want to do all that.”

Bucky’s grimace deepened.  “I did at the time.  I didn’t know who the hell I was, but I was _hungry_.” Bucky turned away, unable to meet Steve’s eyes.  Steve didn’t get it: Hydra had succeeded in turning him into a cockslut.  He’d gone down on his knees – willingly – for men he’d have killed given half a chance.  He was weak, he was disgusting, and no amount of showers would wash away the Hydra filth that stained his soul.  If Steve knew half the things he’d done, the depravity he’d _asked_ for, he’d never want to touch him again.  Abruptly, “I liked it, Steve,” spilled from his mouth.  “I’m _made_ to like it.  Best friend or not, it doesn’t change the truth: whether or not I ask for it, I can’t fucking help but like it.  It’s what I _am_ now.”

Steve huffed in frustration.  “So what?” he finally whispered softly behind him.  “You have to have something that I can freely give you.  I know you’ve been through hell and back and goddammit: if I can’t _fix_ you I want to at least ease your pain…”  Steve experimentally put a hand on the soft patch of skin where his neck met his shoulder.

Bucky tensed for a moment, incredulity slowly numbing his anger, his muscles loosening beneath Steve’s touch whether or not Bucky wanted to stay mad at him.  Despite himself, he glanced back over his shoulder into warm, blue eyes rimmed in pink and saw something he never thought he’d see again.  How could Steve _still_ want _him_ after _everything?_    Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek, jaded exhaustion strained against fragile hope.  “What are you suggesting, Steve?  Go back to what it was like during the war?  Guilty sex behind closed doors?  Me feeling like I’m using you?” Bucky shook his head, disgusted.  “Steve, I don’t want that.”

“You feel like _you’re_ using _me_?” Steve asked incredulously, gently guiding Bucky to turn back around to face him.  “You know it’s good for me, too, right?”  He voice had dropped low, not harsh like a whisper but honeyed and deep like a symphonic bass.  “What’s the down side?  You need it, I want to give it.  We’re friends…”  He forced Bucky to meet his eyes, “It doesn’t have to be some shameful obligation if we don’t make it one.”

“You never struck me as the kind of guy who went for casual sex,” Bucky hesitated, testing Steve’s offer for holes.  He missed Steve like a part of himself, but “I don’t see how I can bring you anything but more problems.”

Steve took a seat on the couch, gently patting the space next to him.  “Think about it, Bucky.  We’re best friends.  We could be more if you are willing.  I enjoy myself more dong _anything_ when you’re there.  I always pictured you being there whenever I imagined the future.  And we _both_ enjoy each other when we’re together.  Isn’t that what a _relationship_ is?”  Even now, a hint of pink flushed over his cheeks, “Or better yet, don’t think about it.  What do you _feel_ , Buck?”

The force of Steve’s devotion dissolved the instinctual words of protest from Bucky’s mouth.  Bucky tentatively slipped into the seat beside him, squirming at his guised tail’s urge to coil into the spaces between the cushions.  He wanted this.  He wanted so badly for what Steve was saying to be true, yet he heard himself trying to create holes in Steve’s conviction when he couldn’t find any.  His voice shook.  “You deserve a relationship you don’t have to hide.” 

“This time things are different,” he said, scooting closer as Bucky’s walls began to crumble.  “You know, there are aliens now.  Big green hulks.  Queers can get married now…”  

“It’d still be an issue for someone like Captain America to come out as queer,” Bucky side-eyed him.  “And on top of that, I’m not exactly normal.”  He chewed the inside of his cheek.  Was he actually considering this?  It wouldn’t be easy, even if they kept things quiet.  This was like eying the delicious food in the fridge right there in the apartment.  And unlike Hydra, Steve had given him permission to eat anything he wanted.  But the chasm between knowing he was allowed and taking that step to eat what he wanted was as wide as the East River.  He’d spent too many years having his own worthlessness beaten into him; good things weren’t meant for him.

“Probably,” Steve admitted.  “And that’s honestly the only reason I haven’t come out publicly.  Because it’s going to ‘A Thing’,” he motioned with hands, “and I hate that.  Not because I’m ashamed, but because I don’t understand why my love life is other peoples’ business.  That’s complicated enough for anyone.”

“Besides, I’m not exactly normal, either,” Steve said, knocking Bucky’s knee with his.  “I used to be the weirdest thing on the planet, and now I’m small potatoes.  We’re two old geezers from the past, and I’m a ‘superhero’” Steve made those ridiculous finger quotes in the air again.  “I couldn’t have a normal relationship anymore even if I wanted one.”

Bucky blew out a breath; that’s not what he meant.  “I’m a _demon_ , Steve.”  Bucky laid it bare.  “You never knew when we started sleeping together.  Fuck, I didn’t even know until Prague.  Had I known back then, I never would have wanted to put you into that kind of position where I was…” Bucky winced, shaking his head, “corrupting you.”

“You’re not an actual _demon_ ,” Steve insisted.  “I don’t think it works that way.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” Bucky rankled.  How _dare_ Steve just fucking dismiss the huge weight that had been pressed upon his shoulders for the better part of a century!  He’d been changed!  Sure, he’d been tortured and used, but worst of all he’d been _damned._   “You suddenly a biblical scholar?  You don’t like the truth so you’re just going to deny it?  I know you’re stubborn, Steve Rogers, but that’s damn pig-headed.”  

“Hey!” Steve protested, “Look, what people think of when we say ‘demon’ or ‘angel’ is nothing like the Bible actually _says_ about these creatures.”  He got up suddenly and strode confidently towards a book he set on his shelf.  It was old, leather-bound, and had a plastic protective cover of some kind.  Dozens of little neon-colored flags stuck out in various pages, and with photographic precision he opened it up to an elaborate reproduction of an etching:

The creature was little more than a set of two pairs of feathered wings, but commanded the space with intertwined, engraved metal rings rotating above it.  Most disturbingly, what seemed like hundreds of eyes covered every wing.

“According to the Bible, this is what one of the angels looks like. Not exactly what’s on the Sistine Chapel,” Steve pointed out.

Bucky set his jaw, “I don’t know about angels, but I know what I am, Steve.  I don’t like it, but I’m not going to just plug my ears and pretend.”  He looked up from the abstract diagram in the book, meeting his eyes.  Steve was _so_ earnest, and maybe this explanation was how he was trying to reconcile Bucky’s _condition_ , but he needed to rip off that band aid before he could even consider moving forward.  Steve had to understand what he was getting himself into.  “In fact, I’ll do you one better.  I’m not just a demon – there’s a word for what I am: succubus.  I know you know what that is, and tell me that doesn’t fit the fucking bill.”

Steve hesitated briefly as the word hit home, but then his persistent stubbornness set in.  He closed the book in a huff.  “Well, I challenge you to find any reference to a succubus _in_ the Bible.”

Bucky bristled, “I get the fucking point, Steve.  You’re not listening, or you don’t want to listen – which, _believe me_ , I understand.  I had the better part of a year after I was captured to sit and stew on what they’d turned me into.  To bear the weight of these horns on my head and the damnation on my fucking _soul_.  I have these _needs_ , Steve, that I can’t stop myself from acting on if they get bad enough.”  Bucky took a breath, pinching between his eyes.  “Maybe I don’t have any answers to those _big_ questions -  but don’t act like you do either.”

“I _am_ listening!”  His voice hardened like clay in the sun, “You can’t be _damned_ , Bucky, if you didn’t sell your soul.  It’s not a sin if you didn’t have a choice!”

He tried to take a steadying breath, but it caught in his chest, the tightness gripping him like a vice.  The truth – the big one – that he’d been holding railed against its confines.  He had no excuse but free it now; the conversation had led them here, and holding it back any longer would be nothing but deception.  “But the thing is, I _did_ agree to it.  The last ritual, they had me,” He swallowed bitterly, “half out of my mind, maybe, but God tests people, right?  Abraham… Moses… Job…? They made me beg for it.  I _asked_ for them to change me.  For relief to the hunger, I gave in.  Don’t you see?  I failed!”  The confession spilled raw from his mouth, in spite of the mountain of shame trying to suffocate him.  “If I hadn’t given in, maybe it would have killed me, but at least I would have died without having agreed to it.”  He wanted to bury his face in Steve’s shirt – he wanted to dig a pit in the ground and cover himself up.  But Steve needed to know the truth – no matter how painful.   

 “One moment of tortured weakness doesn’t equal eternal damnation.”  Steve opened his arms in invitation, and Bucky found himself falling into Steve as if he were the new center of gravity.  Somehow, it still surprised him how strong they were around his shoulders.  But then, Steve had always been the strong one – in spirit if not in body.  

Steve ran a hand through his long hair.  “I’m not going to quote scripture at ya, Buck, but over and over again it speaks of forgiveness.  Look, according to the Bible demons are fallen angels, yeah? So if an angel can fall, why can’t a demon rise?”

He wanted to believe Steve was right, but that tiny mote of hope had a long way to go before it could dispel the vast darkness that had clouded Bucky’s mind.  He chuckled wetly into Steve’s shoulder, “if anyone could lift me up out of this pit, it’d be you.”

“Damn straight” he whispered softly in his ear.  “If you don’t believe God can forgive you for what Hydra _did_ to you, then dammit, I’ll do it.  I refuse to believe you’re damned.  And if you are, we’ve got a Solomon and Baby situation,” he let his voice soften, catching Bucky’s eyes, “because either you’re coming to Heaven with me, or I’m going to Hell with you.”

Steve’s words knocked the wind out of him and stung his eyes with ripening tears.  “Steve…” Bucky choked, shaking his head.  “I don’t deserve you but fuck, I believe you’d go up against Satan himself if you had half a reason.”   He took a shaking breath, voicing another doubt before he had the chance to reconsider.  “But what I don’t understand is you could have your pick of _anyone._   Why me?” Bucky demanded, not understanding _how_ Steve’s flame for him refused to extinguish after everything and _everyone_ he’d done.  “What about Sam?  You said yourself that if the timing had been better, then something might have happened, right?  He’d be better for you.”  

Steve huffed in frustration.  “Sam’s great,” he conceded.  “I feel lucky to have him in my life, but I don’t love Sam.  Not like I love _you_.”  Steve’s voice went soft, but with such earnest insistence behind it that it was as difficult to face as staring into the sun.  

Steve had said it before, but this time his words found their mark.  “I’m not sure if I’m worth that, Steve,” Bucky whispered, shrinking in on himself.  

Steve’s eyes rimmed in pink.  “You’re worth it to me.”  Steve reached for Bucky’s hands again, lifting both sets of his knuckles to feather his lips over them.  “I’ll never be able to understand everything you went through, but there is so much that only the two of us can truly understand.  World War II?  The smell of Brooklyn harbor in 1935.  We rubbed shoulders with the greats of history and went to the depths of hell with each other.  We’ve lost time, we’ve suffered frozen in ice while we were helpless to steer the direction of our _own_ lives.  We’ve both changed so much but we’re still _here_ for each other.”   He nipped the soft flesh of his right hand playfully, “This train’s still barreling through, Bucky.  It hasn’t reached  the end yet.”

And dammit, there went the fucking waterworks.  Bucky sniffed, wiping at his eyes with his gloved left hand, leaving his right hand exactly where it was under Steve’s lips.  “Sentimental punk,” Bucky managed to leak out between embarrassingly choked-off huffs.  

Steve brought up both his hands and held Bucky’s face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs, “I know nothing I can offer you will ever make what you went through ‘worth it’ but if you’ll let me, Bucky, I’ll do everything in my power to try.”

Bucky had to mash his whole fucking face into Steve’s shirt because every part of it was leaking.  “You trying to get me to ruin this perfectly good shirt of yours?”

“Congratulations, it’s yours,” Steve chuckled fondly.  

Bucky laughed despite himself, nose running and eyes bleary and wet.  “I always wanted a shirt that I could barely stretch over my chest – how’d you know?”  He hoped that his voice didn’t sound as broken as it felt. “Thank you,” He added, quieter.  “I just… it’s been so long since someone’s treated me like a goddamned person let alone…” He trailed off, shaking his head against Steve, which coincidentally had the side effect of wiping his runny nose off on his shirt.  

Steve tucked some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear.  “Look, you took care of me at some of my darkest times.  I’m not stupid, I know I was sweaty, smelly mess when tossing and flailing with a 104 degree fever in the middle of August in a flat with no air conditioning.  So let me take care of you, I can _promise_ you I’ll enjoy myself more than you did.”

“I never minded.” Bucky said, trying to ignore the mischievous twinkle that appeared in Steve’s eyes with his final words.  “Can’t say you were going to be winning any beauty contests when you were laid up like that, but we couldn’t all be charming _and_ handsome,” he smiled and sat back, wiping away the last of his tears.

“But-” He took a breath, one final caution on his lips, “as much as I wish I could, I can’t promise to be faithful, Steve.  If I go into a heat… if I were to get hurt and you’re not around…” he winced, “I’d go down on my worst enemy if I was hungry enough.  I’d hate myself for it every second of it, but I’d do it.”

Steve took a moment to chew on his words before he spoke.  “But you wouldn’t wake up next to them in the morning,” he finally said, gently squeezing his left shoulder right were the rough metal-like armor broke into his scarred skin like jagged ice in the water.  “Faithfulness is deeper than just filling what’s a biological necessity to you.”  Steve leaned in to kiss him, pausing right before his lips, “I want your heart, that’s all.”  

“You’ve had my heart since I was 14, Steve.” Bucky murmured, closing the rest of the distance to Steve’s lips.  They met tentatively at first – pliant, but still ember-hot and wet from emotion.  Bucky took in a breath through his nose, slid his eyes closed and pressed in, tasting the promises on Steve’s lips and swallowing them whole.  

One kiss became two, became three, and Steve’s tongue gently pressed into his mouth.  Bucky responded in kind, leaning forward and loosening his hold on his decades-old desires.  He deepened the kiss with desperate fervor.  Bucky was kissing _Steve_.  Never, in a million years, did Bucky think he’d be lucky enough to have this again.     

“Do you want me?” Steve breathed between hungry kisses.  

How was this not a dream?  Bucky nodded fervently - oh God, did he.  Not just wanting to feed or nameless intimacy.  He wanted _Steve_.  Jealously, he craved Steve’s hands, Steve’s body, and Steve’s heart.  He might never actually deserve him, but he couldn’t shut out his mournful yearnings any longer.

It was okay.  He was allowed to want – Steve had said so - and _oh_ he wanted this.  He wanted _Steve_.  And somehow, miracle of miracles, Steve still wanted him. 

“Good,” Steve growled passionately, “because I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since 1933.”  

Bucky gasped as Steve planted his strong hands firmly on Bucky’s ass and hoisted him right off the couch, guiding Bucky’s legs around his slender waist.  He’d forgotten just _how_ strong Steve was, and Bucky’s heart raced at being carried so effortlessly.  His mind already began to conjecture how Steve could move him: put him against a wall, angle his body however he wanted him, and familiar lust built hot in his chest, echoing in his loins, but this time… this time Bucky welcomed it, embraced it as tightly as Steve’s broad shoulders; inviting it to drive out his misgivings and worthlessness that clung to him like tentacles.  

In response, Bucky sensed the lust stirring in Steve as innately as feeling the temperature, and he couldn’t help but try to squirm closer.  Steve’s lips didn’t wander from Bucky’s for more than the moment needed to take a breath, and he kept his kisses measured as he carried him into the master bedroom.

He laid him down gently on the mattress, standing over him for a moment to take in the sight.  Steve took the opportunity to shed his shirt, tossing it vaguely in the direction of his closet hamper.  Bucky bit into his bottom lip with a delighted smile, glancing at Steve invitingly through thick lashes.  He wasn’t so loused up that he didn’t know how good he looked, especially guised.  

The look set Steve afire; he grabbed Bucky by the knees and pulled him close so his legs wrapped around him.  Their hips slowly ground against each other as Steve leaned over and kissed at his neck with slow intensity.  One hand pressed Bucky down against the mattress as the other began to work his shirt buttons open.  

 “You want me, sweetheart?” Bucky whispered, gasping as Steve’s kisses sent goosebumps racing down his neck.  He gave his body a sinuous roll from his shoulders down to his hips, arching his back off of the bed.

“Been wanting you,” he growled back, sliding Bucky’s shirt off his shoulders slowly, “so long.”  The palms of his hands spread out over Bucky’s pecs, appreciating every rise and crevice.  His fingers traced over the scars as they exposed.  

Bucky shifted nervously under the attention to his scarring and the dark, rooty veins of his arm that threaded along them.  

Steve paused for just a moment, noticing his discomfort.  “You don’t have to guise,” he suggested gently, tugging at the fly of his pants.  “You are beautiful either way.”

Bucky’s seductive smile dimmed, his eyes flicking to the side. It wasn’t that Bucky wasn’t flattered – he _was_ – but the self-disgust that had quieted during this moment reared its ugly head once more.  “Please, Steve.  I don’t want to be that.”  He reached up with his right hand, cupping the back of Steve’s neck, forcing a smile back onto his lips.  “I want to be the one to decide how to share myself again.  I want to be Bucky.  Please, let me just be Bucky tonight.”  

Steve’s lips parted, and for a moment, Bucky was convinced Steve was going to protest, but instead captured Bucky’s lips.  Steve lowered himself over him gently, spending several long, languishing minutes simply kissing him.  All his insecurities buried themselves in a haze of easy pleasure.  

For a few blissful moments, Bucky went pliant beneath him.  He languished in Steve’s attentions, moaning even at the simplest touch of Steve’s hand in his hair, the roll of his hips against Buck’s, and his big hands over his chest.  Bucky hung on Steve’s fervent-tender kisses, savored the mix of his sweat, cologne and spicy tang of post-battle that filled his nose.  God, this was so familiar.  Bucky had clung to the memory of the press of Steve’s body against his own– long after Steve had been lost to the world and Bucky had resigned himself to Steve living only in his memories.  Bucky had preserved the fantasy to revisit in his darkest moments like a talisman for so long that Steve here – _now -_ hardly felt real.  Moreover, he wanted this to be normal, but each time Steve’s lips got close to the seam where human flesh met whatever those plates were made of, Bucky inwardly flinched.  He wanted to make Steve feel good; he wanted to make this feel normal.

He could fix that.  

“Hang on tight,” he nipped into Steve’s lips with a grin.  Steve’s eyes only had a moment to question before they widened in surprise as he was manhandled into a new position as Bucky twisted, leveraging his weight with a Jiu-Jitsu technique until he was on top, straddling Steve’s hips.  Despite still being in his tactical uniform pants, Bucky could feel how well Steve’s body responded to the maneuver.  Bucky grinned down at Steve, eyes roaming appreciatively over his chiseled abdomen and nipples hardening at the sudden exposure to the cool air.  The sudden urge to lick it flared in Buck’s mind, joined a moment later by the realization that he didn’t just have to stare and want any longer.  

Steve opened his mouth - probably to say something smartass \- but Bucky’s hot mouth was on Steve’s bead of a nipple an instant later, hot tongue flicking against it and working it delicately between his teeth.  He had to suppress the growl that threatened to escape his throat as Steve’s unspoken quip became a high pitched yelp of surprise.  But the yelp deepened quickly into rumbling moan in Steve’s chest, his hands rising up to tangle into Bucky’s hair.  As Bucky’s teeth rolled his nipple, Steve jerked under his ministrations, though the way he arched his back indicated an unwillingness for Bucky to stop.  
  
Steve’s failure to articulate anything more than a gasp or a choked-off moan went straight to Bucky’s cock.  He reveled in having control over the situation.  He had already turned Steve to jelly and he was just getting started.  He snaked his right hand down to Steve’s groin, cupping his erection through the thick fabric of his uniform pants.  Bucky could _feel_ the arousal that coursed through Steve like rapids – smell the first dribbles of precome.  “You’re wearing too much,” he murmured between nips and licks, sliding his hand up and down the restrained length of it, a finger lingering on the spot of moisture over the tip. “I can help with that.”  

Steve’s head nodded enthusiastically. His uniform was specially designed to make sure his most sensitive areas weren’t easy targets, but he was _so_ hard Bucky had no trouble feeling its rigid outline anyway.  

Bucky’s fingers moved to his buckle, triggering the release with a deft click.  Steve lifted his hips eagerly as Bucky worked at his belt, using the opportunity to slide his hands over Bucky’s chest and roll his thumbs over Bucky’s nipples.

Bucky’s teeth slipped from their grasp on Steve’s nipples, sinking instead into his bottom lip with a breathy hiss, “mmph, Steve.”  His hand stuttered before taking hold of the zipper of Steve’s fly.  Then, with a snap of his wrist, the zipper was down and Bucky’s flesh hand slid deftly into the band of Steve’s briefs, clutching his engorged cock firm enough to mean business.  God he wanted it inside of him already.  He’d forgotten how massive he was: thick, the veins tangibly standing out against the shaft.  Lust sunk its claws into Bucky, and it took every bit of Bucky’s willpower to keep a level head, to draw this out and not go for the kill.  

He moved his lips up to Steve’s collar bone.  “Did you think about this- about me?” He drawled as he worked his lips up to Steve’s neck.   
  
Steve’s jaw went slack as Bucky’s hands wrapped around his shaft, huffing out a hot breath to soften his moan.  “All the time,” he finally managed to answer, his voice husky.  “Christ…” he breathed into Bucky’s neck, nipping in kind before craning the other way to expose it to Bucky’s tongue and teeth.  “I’d wager more times with you than without.”

Steve snaked quavering arms around Bucky’s waist, fingers searching.  They seemed to find what they were looking for, sliding into the back of his pants and firmly palming over the skin on his bare ass.  Unconsciously, Bucky pressed back into Steve’s hand, shifting his hips side to side.  Heat and moisture gathered lower, his body paving the way for what was hopefully to come later.  

Bucky swallowed thickly as the slick he produced gummed between his ass cheeks.  _God, I hope it doesn’t wig Steve out…_

“What’d you think about?” Bucky teased, pushing that from his mind and ghosting his fingertips feather-light along the length of him, swirling around the head of his cock.  

“You,” he mumbled out against Bucky’s ear.  

“That’s a cop out,” Bucky chided with a nip at his throat and slowing his hand’s ministrations on his cock.  

“Hey we’ll be here all night if you want me to recite the entire library of my sexual fantasies,” Steve came back.  “I’d rather just make them a reality.”

“Ya gotta give me something,” Bucky huffed

“You inside me,” he gave in.  

Bucky hesitated, wetting his lips.  He hadn’t been inside someone else since… well, certainly before this happened.  Would his guise even hold what with the _textural changes_?  Bucky swallowed thickly, strategizing. 

“I’d hear ya when you brought dames over,” Steve continued, pushing his hips into Bucky’s hands and fingers stiltedly working at Bucky’s belt.  “I knew,” he panted between short, gasping breaths, Brooklyn accent thickening in his voice, “I was ‘sposed to be thinking about the girls, and I’d try, but that’s always get me wondering what you were doin’ to ’em to make it sound like that.”  Steve’s cock gave a twitch at the memory.

The memory blossomed in his mind like a flower: it was just easier to get himself going in his and Steve’s apartment with the lights off…  Bucky hadn’t thought too hard about the why’s back then.  God, he’d been in denial for _so long._   “Yeah?” Bucky breathed against the shell of his ear, “Always wondered if you were still awake,” He continued, taking Steve’s cock in a firmer grip, “if you could hear what was goin’ on.”  

Sinuously, Bucky slid back down Steve’s torso, leaving a trail of kisses as he went, until he was kneeling between Steve’s legs.  With a smooth motion, he tugged his pants and drawers off of his hips, tossing them into the pile in the corner begun by Steve’s shirt.  “Well, I didn’t often just lead with that, ya know,” the Brooklyn crept back into Bucky’s voice as he licked his lips, appraising Steve’s cock, standing all on its own and looking awfully lonely.  “My tongue was good for more than just the sweet-talking that got them home.”  God, he’d never gotten the chance to do this before, had he?  Bucky’s mouth was watering at the prospect – and the rosy flush that traveled all the way down Steve’s torso to the swollen head of his dick.

“Yeah?” Steve queried softly, going limp onto the bed.  

The fingers of his right hand wrapped gently around the base, thumb pressing just a bit into the dip where the shaft met his testicles.  Then, he ran the point of his nose up along the velvet flesh of him, breathing in the Steve’s scent.  The smell alone was maddening.  His _condition_ had made the smell of cock and precome alluring, but somehow this was more.  It was intoxicating; it was raw _Steve_.  It took every ounce of his willpower not to swallow him down without preamble, and the anticipation building in his chest was exhilarating.  His own cock strained against the front of his slacks, his body hot and shaking with want.  

Steve lifted his arms above his head and arched his back as Bucky nosed around the sensitive flesh.  He licked his lips in anticipation, chewing on his bottom lip as the skin on his thighs puckered into gooseflesh.  “You as good with your tongue as you are with a rifle, Buck?”

“Hmmmm,” Bucky hummed against Steve’s cock, the vibrations reverberating through him, “Some might argue better.”  

His lips parted, the very tip of his tongue emerging to trail slowly up the vein that ran along the underside.  He took his time, drawing this out to tease.  For the first time in as long as he could remember, Bucky wasn’t in any kind of hurry.  

Steve’s eyes rolled back in his head as his tongue made contact, and he let his head fall back onto the mattress.  Bucky couldn’t remember ever seeing Steve this pliant.  Before the serum, Steve balked at showing any weakness, resenting any kind of manhandling, even from Bucky.  Since becoming the Captain, Steve ate, slept, and breathed command and control.  Yet, now he let Bucky take the lead, twisting his hands into the duvet under him and moaning encouragingly.  

Bucky could feel Steve’s mounting desire as plainly as reading a pressure gauge.  The potential energy reservoir within Steve was an ocean dammed up behind a brittle barricade, and the enormity of it stirred something feral in him.  Salacious thoughts slithered through his head of what he could do with his extendable tongue if he weren’t guised: of how much bounty Steve’s super-soldier energy well could provide if he drained him, but Bucky swallowed those thoughts - and Steve’s cock – down.  This was about pleasing Steve – this was about being intimate, being a lover, being _Bucky_ , not _that_.  But as Steve’s precome smeared over his tongue, Bucky nearly choked in surprise.  Was it always this good?  It was impossible to completely retain the exquisite taste of a cock in his mouth, but Steve’s was different.  Indescribable.  Ineffable. _Ha_.  Fuck pizza, donuts and even _chocolate_ , Bucky wanted to taste nothing else for the rest of his life.   
  
Bucky’s eyes flashed up, focusing on the exquisite expressions on Steve’s face instead of just his cock.  He worked his lips down halfway over his shaft before slowly pulling back off, sucking hard enough to hollow out his cheeks, rewarded with a broken groan from Steve’s slack, ruddy mouth.  And despite Steve’s impressive willpower, his hips jerked up into Bucky’s mouth, demanding more.  He half grunted out an apology, but he bucked up again before he could finish forming a word.

Bucky managed to smirk around Steve’ cock as he moved his left hand to brace Steve’s hips, pinning them down and holding him still, “Let me,” his hot breath gusted over Steve’s erection before he took him back into his mouth.  

Bucky took control, not shy about showing off his expertise.  He started slow, but his mouth was so firm around him, his tongue pressing hard against the underside and the suction almost supernaturally tight as he began to bob his head.  Keyed into Steve’s desire, Bucky gave him just enough to stoke the fire into an inferno, but slowed his pace and loosened his lips when Steve’s came close to cresting over.  

Steve’s eyes shot open and he ran the fingers of both his hands through Buck’s long hair: grabbing but not pulling.  “I’m gonna come…” he gasped out between quick breaths, propping himself up on one elbow.

Pulling away from Steve was almost as difficult as cutting off his own air supply, but Bucky managed.  His face was hot, the delectable flavor of Steve still pooled on his tongue, the need for more pulling at him like a magnet.  He wasn’t used to this – to slowing down and drawing it out, but he _wanted_ to – he _chose_ this, chose _Steve_ , and he wanted to savor it for as long as he could.  If anything, the temptation made it more exciting.  

Steve groaned in mock-frustration.  “Please…” he begged, tugging gently as his hair.  

Bucky swallowed down the flavor, delighting in the taste that still lingered, and licked his lips as he looked to Steve with a debauched twinkle in his eyes.  “How’s your stamina, pal?”

Steve managed to huff out a laugh, “I’ve never exactly tested it, but I promise you I can go more than once-”

Bucky’s thread of restraint snapped and his lips were back around Steve’s dick before he could finish his sentence.  That was all he needed to hear.  Oh god, how had he ever managed to pull away from this?  It was perfectly hard against his lips, the smooth skin already slippery with his spit.  And the weight of it – perfect against his tongue as he pressed it against the underside, letting him feel each throb as he quickly brought Steve back to the threshold of orgasm.  

Bucky cupped his balls in his right hand, gently tugging on them and rolling them between his fingers while he squeezed Steve’s hip with his left.  He bobbed his head once more, twice, until he felt the tell-tale signs that Steve was about to come: his balls drew up tightly, his cock stiffening and Bucky sensed the crest of the wave about to hit.  Eagerly, he drew back, just enough to make sure that Steve would hit his tongue instead of the back of his throat.  He wanted to finally _taste_ Steve.  

Steve’s hands slipped to Bucky’s shoulders and squeezed - hard enough it would have been painful for non-enhanced individuals - right before he shuddered hard enough to make the bed shake, spilling into Bucky’s mouth as his moan grew into a deep roar.   
  
_Don’t drain him, don’t drain him_. Bucky focused on the mantra, digging his left hand dug – _hard_ – into Steve’s hip as he the orgasm crashed over them both like a bomb.  He must have made noise, but he couldn’t have said anything that happened past the impact.  It was an out of body experience.  Sheer mind-blanking ecstasy carried him away from every other sensation other than pleasure that lit up every nerve, every cell of his body.  

And he just seemed to _keep coming._   After what seemed like an eternity of bliss, the lights behind his eyes flickered away and dropped him back into the present, mouth still wrapped around the font, ambrosia itself on his tongue.  Steve’s body went rag doll as he slumped down into the bed with an elated sigh.  

But God – Steve was right – there was _more_ there.  More potential – more pleasure!  The force of will it had taken when Bucky had paused before the climax was nothing compared to the monumental effort it took to pull off now.  Bucky stumbled backwards, shivering as effervescent tingles ran through his body.  “Fuck,” He finally articulated. 

Steve hefted Bucky up his body and wrapped him firmly in his big arms, a huge smile on his face before he buried it into the crook of Bucky’s neck.  “Mmmrrrmmm…” he murmured against his skin as he rolled over, taking Bucky with him and maneuvering on top of him.  “Good?” he asked cheekily, trailing kisses over his neck and jawline, sending goosebumps prickling all over Bucky’s skin.  

“ISsa…” Bucky panted, rubbing his face into Steve’s hair as he tried to form words a second time.  “Good… Good doesn’t even buh–begin to describe… fuck, Steve.”  Bucky slurred.  

Remarkably, though it had softened for a few moments, Bucky felt the press of Steve’s cock – miraculously hard again already – against his thigh.  That was all it took to send a renewed trickle of fluid down Bucky’s leg.  These pants, now soaked on both sides, _really n_ eeded to come off.  “How do you still have enough energy… to get hard again?”  Bucky panted, “Not that I’m complaining.  Really not complaining.”  

“Well,” Steve smirked, moving to straddle him, “technically I never got all the way soft.”  

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky breathed, a smile still fixed on his mouth.  Between both of their endurances, how long could they keep this up?  Lord knew Steve never backed down from a challenge, and Bucky wasn’t certain he had an upper limit beyond passing out from sheer over-indulgence.  

Steve reached down and began to work at Bucky’s fly, his eyes half-lidded and his body flushed and gloriously hot from ears to thighs.  A part of Bucky just wanted to burrow into his arms again and soak up his presence and warmth.  But the rest of him needed Steve even closer than that; needed him inside.  Bucky canted his hips up to give Steve access, his own cock pitching a massive tent in his boxers beneath.  A wet spot stained the front, from his earlier release, and a heady bouquet of pheromones flooded the air as Steve worked his pants off of his hips.  

The reaction was immediate: Steve’s pupils expanded to eclipse the blue of his eyes, and he growled low in his throat, eyes raked over Bucky’s cock as he pulled his briefs down with his thumbs.  It sprung up with a satisfyingly pop as it freed itself from the elastic waistband.  Surely this must be what being high felt like.  Steve lathed his tongue broadly over the glands and down the prominent veins along his shaft; his eyes never breaking contact with Bucky.  “My turn?”

Steve barely managed to miss the ridges and pointed head with his first pass, but if Steve actually went down on him?  Bucky panted, muscling past his cock’s eager reaction, “Not sure if… if I can hold… my guise,” He managed.  And god, he only _barely_ managed.  Did Steve catch his implications: that his dick wasn’t exactly the same under the guise?  Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted him to know.  “Can we…” He ran his bottom lip under his incisors, “can we put a pin in this?  Just for tonight?  He brought a lopsided grin to his face, “but I know you’re good at it – _Christ_ – I remember how good you are at it.”  

He tilted his hips up a little more, “But maybe you could get these trousers off all the way, and try something further South…?”

An impish twinkle sparked in Steve’s eyes as he enthusiastically grabbed the legs of Bucky’s pants and swiped them straight off; causing Bucky to fall onto his back - and while his legs were still in the air, Steve caught them and guided his feet around his shoulders.  “Yeah?” he inquired, using his index finger to run from his leaking slit, down the shaft, pull gently over his testicles, and finally ended with his finger gently edging tight ring of flesh at his hole.

Bucky nodded, his cock twitching and drooling onto his stomach even with Steve’s first explorative touches.  The sensitive pucker of muscle fluttered as Steve circled his finger along it, seeping clear, viscous liquid.  “Yeah,” he answered emphatically.  Bucky ran his tongue over his lips, “Bet you could get me to come – just from that – if you’re good.” 

Steve rubbed Buck’s wetness between his fingers inquisitively, “That sounds like a challenge to me.”  He looked back up to Bucky, surprised.  “This happens on its own?” 

Bucky swallowed, embarrassment flagging his pounding desire.  He wet his lips, nodding.  “S-side effect,” He grunted, nervously catching Steve’s eyes with a lift of his brow.  “Hope that’s okay?” he winced.  _Please be okay._

To answer his question, Steve popped his fingers in his mouth.  His eyes darkened, tongue lingering over his fingers with a dawn out ‘mmmm.’  All of the tension bled out of Bucky in a single breath, rushing instead to his cock.  

Steve slid down the bed enough to position himself so Bucky’s legs were up, pushing his thighs apart with his arms.  He gave a few exploratory licks, pausing to nuzzle his cock and check in with Bucky, “Like this?”

Bucky nodded fiercely, needing something inside him, “Fuck yes – more, pleasemore!” Bucky kept himself propped up on his elbows, watching Steve – never letting himself forget _who_ was touching him.  That he was safe, could trust his partner, and above all, _loved_.

Steve squeezed his palms over the thick, wide expanse of his inner thighs and lowered his tongue back down, beginning to swirl around the tight rim before dipping in, exploring with a restrained, determined perseverance.  Despite the fact that Bucky _knew_ Steve had never done this before, he was proving himself to be just as much a master tactician in the bedroom as on the battlefield: quick on his toes, and a lightning fast learner.  He gauged Bucky’s reactions to his experimental maneuvers.  Every time Bucky’s breath hitched, Steve doubled down on what he was doing.  If Bucky hadn’t been entirely sure it wasn’t true, Bucky might have suspected that Steve had something akin to his own ability to sense arousal and response to different techniques.  

In just a few minutes, Steve had him floating in desire, sweating, quavering, and leaking in near-overstimulation.  “Good – yes - yes right there!” he uttered, hips bucking and cock red and positively aching to be touched.  

He gripped the sheets, struggling to keep his hands off his dick.  Could Steve manage to make him come without touching his dick?  If anyone was up for the challenge it would be Steve.  Maybe, he could have crested over with enough time, but eventually Bucky was squirming and his cock throbbed impatiently.  He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he realized they’d be able to try again and again and again! “Mmph, Steve, please – can I… can I touch myself?  Or do you wanna fuck me?” Bucky pleaded, and felt a dramatic uptick in Steve’s arousal in response.  He’d have to file that away for later, apparently Steve liked it when he begged.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he growled into Bucky’s groin before nipping at his thighs.  He quickly crawled back up Bucky’s body, guiding his legs from his shoulders to wrap around his waist.  Herubbed his hard cock against Bucky’s own impatiently.  “Can I kiss you?” he asked sheepishly, quickly using the back of his hand to wipe off his face.

“Get in here,” Bucky grinned, lips red and swollen from biting into them.  His eyes glimmered against his flushed cheeks, but as horny as he was, and as much as his dick ached to come, he looked at Steve with more adoration than lust.  Bucky slung his left arm around Steve’s shoulders, bringing their heads together to kiss him fiercely, and tasting his own arousal from his lips.  And damn if that wasn’t seven times hotter than it should have been.   

All self consciousness dissipated from Steve like a puff of smoke as he hungrily pressed his tongue against Bucky’s.  For a few moments, they lost themselves in the kiss.  

Bucky couldn’t tell if had been only few seconds or several long minutes before his erection twitched insistently.  Between his own pheromones in his nose and Steve’s body pressed against him, brimming with energy, Bucky was going to go crazy if he didn’t get properly fucked soon.  “Please, I need you,” Bucky prayed into Steve’s lips.  

Breaking the kiss to catch his breath, Steve shifted and used a free hand to guide himself into Bucky, his eyes sliding closed in sublime pleasure as he sunk in.  

Bucky could feel Steve all the way down to his toes and back up to his scalp.  He was so wet by now: the hot, tight clutch if his body welcomed Steve like he belonged there.  He slapped a hand onto Steve’s shoulders for support, his back arching as his cock stretched him so wide that he saw stars behind his eyes.  It was just _so much_ , so _amazingly_ much.  “Ste-ouuugh!” Bucky gasped, both stretched to the limits and hungering for more.  He panted for a moment as Steve bottomed, catching his breath out before nodding enthusiastically.  “Good!  I’m good!” he reassured him, every nerve alight and poised for Steve to begin to move.  

Steve’s forehead came to rest against Bucky’s as his eyes slid open.  He was nearly in tears by this point, his skin red-hot and beads of sweat making his skin glisten.  He took a few steadying breaths as Bucky adjusted to his size, then began to slowly pump his hips in a controlled, rolling motion, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure echoing through him.  “Christ, Buck,” he gasped out, “ohhh… missed this so much.”

“God, I forgot how big you are,” Bucky panted with a smile, meeting Steve’s eyes.  Bucky let Steve get his pace, learned it, and then began to move.  He timed his undulating motion to grind back against him, clenching against him at the crest.  With his cock sandwiched between them, each sinuous roll gave it a long, firm squeeze.  It felt amazing, his whole body sizzling in delight, but his chest felt fit to burst with the _rightness_ of it all.  God he could live right here, in this moment, staring into Steve’s face above him haloed by the dim fluorescent lights.  Forgetting all the complications of his life, just being filled by Steve. 

Drunk on each other, they continued to move in perfect synchrony: holding each other’s eyes as they moved against each other in perfect synchrony.   Time and space melted into a continuous stream of bliss.  They both tried to hold out as long as they could; enjoying the sweet torture of their aching cocks.  Eventually, however, the communal pressure built to a point neither could have stopped if they wanted to.  Steve’s hips snapped against the back of Bucky’s thighs like a piston as he came; releasing a wail of pleasure that would happily haunt Bucky’s erotic dreams for years to come.

It was more – so much more – than the crash of pleasure from the blowjob.  Distantly, Bucky heard himself cry out in a loud wail, his body surging as his mind reeled sky-high.  Maybe with practice, Bucky could learn to control himself better through the overwhelming flood of energy that was Steve’s orgasm.  But not tonight.  “Don’t stop!” he distantly heard himself cry as his body reflexively locked down on Steve, strapping in for the long ride.  Bucky barely had the wherewithal to desperately cling to his shoulders.  

Bucky drowned on each shudder of pleasure, filling his lungs with the life-giving euphoria.  He filled his _being_ with Steve, desperate for it to fill every bit of him.  He chased away the darkness with Steve’s essence, letting it pour them both into the sweet oblivion of sleep.   
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A skech study "Steve" may have done of Bucky's arm (aka one of my sketches)
> 
> And check out this AMAZING Plushie [ Threadberry](https://threadberry.tumblr.com/) made of Demon!Bucky!
> 
> [ Check out more awesome photos of him and/or repost him on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/179593262353/araniaart-threadberry-bucky-is-based-on-the)


	19. Chapter 19

Dawn had ripened into mid-morning when consciousness finally dragged Steve out of the best sleep of his life. The brightness behind his closed lids indicated that he’d slept in, but miraculously, he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about missing his pre-dawn jog. After all, how could he feel anything other than wonderful with a pleasant buzz tingling through his head, snapshots of the night before playing in his mind’s eye, and the warm press of _Bucky_ splayed across his naked chest?  


Brooklyn hadn’t felt like home again until Bucky had returned to him, alive and _remembering_. Steve could have died happy from that alone. He hadn’t dared to hope that he’d be given a second chance at making love to him again on top of that. And the passion they’d shared- God he prayed they were memories and not another dream. Even now he was hesitant to open his eyes, half-fearful that doing so would dismiss this wonderful dream and send him crashing back to a reality where he’d lost everything.  


But Steve was never a coward.  


He slid his eyes open and the smile returned to his face in full-force. Bucky was still dead asleep, face mashed comically against the swell of his pecs, a small puddle of drool collecting in the groove between them. Sleep had returned Bucky to his true-form, but unlike the snarling visage of a few nights prior, the lambent morning light streaming through the windows and his serene expression lent a softness to the otherworldly features that adorned his lover. Briefly, Steve worried that he was glimpsing something Bucky wasn’t ready to share, but they _had_ fallen asleep in each others’ arms after sharing themselves with each other in the most intimate way.  


Keeping his breathing even so as to not disturb Bucky, he allowed himself to simply appreciate this moment. His hair was a beautiful mess, and the smile gracing his lips was the most peaceful Steve could remember seeing on Bucky since before the war. Gone was the self-consciousness about his body; instead, his great wings wrapped around Steve like a warm blanket and his tail had looped itself affectionately around Steve’s leg. His left hand rested on Steve’s chest, and he was mildly surprised that it was as warm as the rest of him. The rigid platelike scales grew thinner and smaller close to his hand where they broke into an almost bird foot-like scale pattern. The tiny scales over the pads of his fingers were almost soft where they pressed against his collarbone.  


  


_Artwork by_[ puddingpong](http://puddingpong.tumblr.com/)  
[Reblog it on tumblr here](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/176916870283/puddingpong-these-were-commissioned-by)  


A bone-deep rightness settled over him. This feeling right here: this elusive contentment was something Steve had genuinely never thought would be his to possess.  


Steve wasn’t naive enough to think that this was a happy ending, though lord knew that Bucky deserved it. Too many foes lurked out there who would stop at nothing to lock Bucky up - or worse - but this right here was a future Steve would fight for. He wouldn’t fail him again.  


Steve could have lain in bed for hours just watching him sleep, letting Bucky cling to him with every limb like a ballast in the storm. Maybe he’d stroke that long hair out of his eyes if he was certain it wouldn’t wake him. But (and of course there was a but) – if Steve wanted to protect him, he had work to do: documents to go over, plans to make… and a serious need for a shower. They had passed out before cleaning up last night, and the longer Steve lingered in bed, the more grunginess superseded comfort. Additionally, his stomach was quick to remind him that he never did get dinner post-mission.  


Bucky had been a sleep-clinger when they had occasionally shared a bed during the cold winters in the thirties. Give him three extra grasping limbs and he was a damn sleep-octopus. Carefully, Steve began the task of extracting himself from the wing-burrito as gingerly as untangling himself from razorwire. Bucky had gotten precious little uninterrupted sleep since his arrival (most likely since the war) and Steve would have rather gnawed his own arm off than disturb him.  


Escaping the embrace of a sleeping demon without waking him would have made a more effective test of acrobatics and contortion than a SHIELD obstacle course. The little claws at the tips of his wings snagged and caught on the sheets, and Steve was glad for the fact that he had been stripped of his clothing: it made shimmying out of Bucky’s clutches marginally easier. As Steve balanced on one foot and gently unwound Bucky’s tail from his other ankle, Bucky muttered into the pillow Steve had swapped for his body, clutching it tighter. As soon as his tail was freed, it wrapped around a clump of still sleep-warm blankets instead, and Bucky’s breathing returned to the easy cadence of sleep. Steve exhaled a sigh of relief.  


He hit the shower, using the time it took to scrub away the crusted remnants of arguably the best night of his life to form a rudimentary plan. The bank vault hadn’t housed the book Bucky needed, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t have leads. They’d need help with the hard drives they pulled from the facility; someone with enough processing power to not only decipher the intel but parse through a great deal of data. Moreover, whether or not Bucky seemed to care, Steve needed to take some preemptive steps to protect him legally. Only one person came to mind who could help with all of that.  


But the question was _would_ he? Tony Stark was a wild card even in the best circumstances, and they’d hardly spoken since New York. To make matters worse, based on Zola’s monologuing, Steve had a bad feeling that Bucky was directly involved in the assassination of Howard Stark. Keeping that from Tony would be deceptive, assuming that the information wasn’t already in the HYDRA data leak. That was the reason Steve had avoided asking Tony for assistance finding Bucky, but he couldn’t justify putting off seeking his help now when he was legitimately their best option. However, just because he needed to pay him a visit didn’t mean that actually talking with him would be any easier.  


Steve finished up in the bathroom, tossed on a clean set of clothing, and made his way to the kitchen.  


Three messages from Sam were waiting for him on his cell phone when he located it on the counter:  


_I might be staying a few extra days in DC to tie this all up, but it’s going well_  


_Thanks, btw, for an excuse to work with Romanoff again ;)_  


_She’s not happy about Barnes being there, but she’s gonna cover for you guys. She says to tell you that you owe her – again._  


Steve pulled out eggs, bacon, and the ingredients for pancakes as he typed out a response to Sam: _I owe you, too. Thanks, Sam. Let me know if anything comes up – I’m going to try to take the data we got to Tony. Tell Nat I know she’s got a lot more to do than clean up my messes, but I appreciate her help._  


Setting his phone down, he got to work on breakfast.  


The aroma of cooking bacon had just begun to curl through the apartment when the door to the bathroom closed and the sound of running water reached Steve’s ears. Bacon did make the best alarm clock.  


He got to work creating a pile of pancakes and a mountain of bacon and eggs. He snuck a few savory pieces here and there to appease his insistent stomach, invoking the ancient doctrine of the cook’s privilege.  


“Hope you’re hungry,” Steve called out as Bucky strolled from the bathroom in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, back in his human-guise once more.  


“Starving,” Bucky agreed with a bleary smile, toweling at his hair. “And you might just want to burn those sheets.”  


Steve snorted, “I’ll give the washing machine a chance to prove its mettle, but regardless, it was still worth it.” He slid a heaping plate towards him. “Pull up a chair and dig in!”  


Bucky took a seat, attacking the breakfast with gusto. However, as Steve sat down across from him, Bucky kept his eyes on his plate. “Sorry about draining you last night,” He mumbled after swallowing down a mouthful of food. “I wasn’t used to, well, _you._ ”  


Steve lifted his brows, incredulous. “Are you kidding? I got eight hours of uninterrupted, nightmare-free sleep. I can’t buy that kind of good rest, not even in the future. Why are you apologizing?”  


Bucky huffed. “I can usually control myself better than that. I was trying to take things slow; I didn’t want to drain you all the way in that second go at it – it’s just your energy, well, it’s intense. Potent. It’s good, but harder to stop myself than normal.”  


“If you’re trying to stroke my ego, you’re doing a good job, Buck. Guess that just means we’ll have to practice, huh?” He paused, considering, “So does that mean that I can, ah, meet your needs by myself?” It had been a question Steve had been worried about asking. He had no idea what Bucky’s _dietary requirements_ were since his changes had completed. It seemed to be more frequent than during the war, but it had always been a bit of a touchy subject, and it would be a lie to say that he hadn’t been worried whether it would even be possible to fill Bucky’s needs on his own.  


A flush spread across Bucky’s cheeks. “That wouldn’t be problem even if you weren’t a super soldier. I only need to feed about once a week or so.” He risked a glance up, eyes narrowing in scrutiny, “Do you _want_ to be the only one feeding me?”  


“I’d really like to, Buck. Not just the only one feeding you, but give this relationship a real try.” Steve hoped that the rational light of day hadn’t changed Bucky’s opinion, and he needed Bucky to know that he was all in.  


Bucky sighed fondly, shaking his head at himself, “I really do, Steve. I kept finding all these excuses why I couldn’t, but I think I was scared to admit how much I wanted to be with you because I just assumed that something would fuck it up.” He steeled himself, jaw tightening, “But I can’t promise that accidents won’t happen.”  


“I know,” Steve said without a second thought. “I hope for your sake that you’re never in a position that you have to, but that’s not the same thing.” Steve reached out, placing a hand over Bucky’s left. “I want to make you fat and happy,” he grinned with his best seductive expression.  


Bucky nearly choked on his eggs. “Oh God, Steve - I don’t think it works like that!” He swallowed the mouthful, face bright red and eyes crinkling either in amusement or straining from almost asphyxiating on his breakfast, “…but you’re welcome to try?”  


Steve straightened up, puffing his chest. “You’re damn right I’m going to try. You don’t have to wait till you need it, Bucky. Call it practice with restraint if it helps.”  


“Speaking of: sorry about you having to wake up to me looking like that this morning,” Bucky winced. “Last night knocked me for a loop – I didn’t mean to pass out in your bed.”  


Steve shook his head “You never have to apologize for that, Buck.” He held up a finger when Bucky made to interrupt him, “Hey – last night you told me you wanted to be Bucky for me – and I didn’t say anything then because I wanted to respect your wishes. But I want you to know that you’re always Bucky to me, no matter the body.” Steve’s face relaxed into a lopsided grin, “You know, it was actually kind of cute? You’d wrapped me up in your wings in your sleep.”  


“Cute?” Bucky fixed Steve with the same expression Steve had worn when someone offered him sushi for the first time: not unappreciative, but having no idea what to do with what he’d just been given. “You can’t – I’m not-”  


Steve didn’t let him flounder. “I meant it when I said you didn’t have to guise around me,” he reassured gently.  


He stared down at his eggs like they might give him a hint of what to say. “I remember you said that.” Bucky stirred them around with a fork, frowning, obviously not yet ready to believe the words. “I think I’m a little scared of getting used to being like that.”  


“Would that be so terrible?”  


Bucky flinched. “It’s what they made me. This change is more than just skin deep, Steve. I feel different than I remember Bucky being. Sometimes I feel more like an animal than a human! I _growl_ and snarl when I’m not thinking about it, there are these instincts, and that’s not to even mention the _urges_ I get. If I let myself go, I’m scared of what I’d become.”  


“Change is terrifying. What I went through is nowhere near the transformation you underwent, Bucky, but even something that is undeniably positive is jarring. It took me time to get used to my new strength. I nearly swallowed my tongue when ladies shoved their babies into my hands on the USO tour, Buck! They were so tiny!” Steve mimed holding something football-sized in hi hands. “I was worried I’d crush them!” That brought a small smile to Bucky’s lips. “I was scared that my new strength would change me, too, but I took to heart what Dr. Erskine told me when he selected me: ‘the strong man who has known power all his life may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength and knows compassion.’”  


Bucky looked up, his face screwing up into a skeptical look, but before he could argue, Steve continued, “You have always been compassionate, Buck. Back in the day, you stood up for me when I was getting my ass handed to me by kids twice my size. A month ago, you saved me on the helicarriers even when you barely knew me – or yourself! I don’t believe that you could ever be a threat when you’re the one calling the shots. You spent seventy years under Hydra’s thumb and the man you are today,” Bucky’s eyes flicked up tentatively as Steve emphasized the word, “is every bit the hero that I remember you being.”  


“What if we find a cure?” Bucky asked tentatively. “Are we only together because I need that and you don’t want me having to go to someone else?”  


“No,” Steve answered emphatically. “We might want to try to keep things a little quiet for now – at least until we can get your name cleared - but I love you, Bucky Barnes, human or otherwise.”  


Bucky’s face reddened and he shoveled the rest of the food on his plate into his mouth, chewing it slowly. Only when he’d cleared his plate did he speak his thoughts, “I still want to try to find a cure. Before I even think about turning myself in, I want that book. If someone gets their hands on me like this, Steve – they would probably lock me in a lab… or worse.”  


Steve cocked his head. “I’ll respect whatever decision you make, but I think that we could protect you from something like that.”  


Bucky shook his head adamantly, “That’s exactly what they did to you, Steve. SHIELD recruited you before you knew which way was up. Hydra used you through SHIELD. And God knows how many samples they took from you before you woke up after the ice.”  


Steve balked, opening and closing his mouth.  


Bucky continued, vindicated by Steve’s silence. “I’ve been searching the internet: about the data dump, about SHIELD, and about New York. One of the men you fought with, Banner? He could turn into this big green guy? Future’s weird, pal,” Bucky shook his head, blowing out a breath, “But my point is this guy was apparently on the run for years because the government wanted him. The only reason people aren’t looking for him too hard anymore is that he helped save the world – and got caught on a lot of cameras doing it. Too many people like him. The only thing I’ve been caught on cameras doing is shooting up D.C.”  


Steve huffed, frustrated. “Okay, so you’re not wrong about that, but promise me you won’t make a decision as big as whether or not to change back based on fear of what other people might do to you, all right?”  


Bucky drummed the claws of his left hand on the table. “Fine. _If_ we find a cure, I’ll cross that bridge when we get there. But in the meantime, I still want to look.”  


Steve nodded, “That’s all I’m asking. And of course, I’ll help you.”  


“You sure?” Bucky asked meekly. “You’ve already done so much, Steve. I feel like you’ve put the brakes on your life to drop everything and make my problems your problems.”  


“Are you kidding?” Steve shook his head with a humorless laugh. “Insight was the first time since New York that I felt like I knew exactly what I was fighting for. Stopping Hydra. Helping you. This is the direction, the cause I’ve needed.”  


Steve slid his empty plate aside, working his jaw for a moment before continuing. “And you’re right about SHIELD using me. I worked for them because Peggy helped found the organization, and I thought I was still fighting the good fight. But it wasn’t like the war. When I started seeing hints that made me question their motives: stealing information, “compartmentalizing”, realizing that they weren’t sharing the big picture with me? The helicarriers? I lost my footing.”  


Bucky pursed his lips, “You sure I’m not just a pain in your ass?”  


“Then we’ll call it even for the years I was a pain in yours,” Steve smirked.  


A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, “Thanks, Steve.” Bucky pushed away from the table, leaning against the hard back of his chair, “Of course, I don’t know what the hell to do next. I know there are other Hydra bases I was kept in, but I’ve wracked my brain and couldn’t give you a better location than ‘somewhere in Siberia.’”  


“Well, I’ve been giving that some thought.” Steve prefaced, trying to think of the most tactful way to broach the idea, “I think our next step is decoding some of the hard drives. I think our best bet is to take what we have to Tony Stark.”  


Bucky froze, eyes going distant and the color draining from his face. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”  


Sometimes Steve hated being right. Zola had made some bold claims when he was monologing to stall for time. Steve had hoped that he was jumping to conclusions, but when was he ever that fortunate?  


He scooted his chair closer, wincing at the ungodly squeak it made as it slid along the tile. “I know Hydra was responsible for Howard’s death. I had a feeling that you might have been the instrument that they used to do it.” When Bucky’s expression tightened further, Steve set a hand on his shoulder, “I’m not blaming you, Bucky, but it might be difficult for Tony to reconcile.”  


Bucky was silent for a long moment before he spoke up, voice thready, “Tony’s a friend of yours?”  


“We fought together in New York. I’ve seen him a few times since then, and he’s the one who’s been helping protect Bruce Banner.” He was stalling. “Yes, I consider him a friend.”  


Bucky twisted his napkin between his hands, “Then I need to take this one on the chin. I’d rather he hear it from me than from somewhere else if it’s not already too late.” Bucky looked dolefully up at Steve, his eyes bloodshot and unblinking. “It’s the least I can do – and I owe a lot of people.”  


“It wasn’t your fault,” Steve reminded him.  


If the words found their mark, Bucky’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe. Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not my responsibility to try to make things better for those people I hurt.”  


*  


A day and some phone calls later, Steve and Bucky were riding up the elevator of the massive Stark Tower. Bucky kept glancing anxiously around the myriad tiny cameras and bristling security of the cutting-edge facility, his dark glasses and low-brimmed baseball cap doing nothing to disguise his tension.  


“Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to head back.”  


“I’m not running.” Bucky said, face pointed towards his shoes, gripping the strap of the duffle bag a little tighter.  


Before Steve had the opportunity to say anything else, the doors to the elevator dinged open, presenting them with a room that managed to be both brightly lit and cavernous at the same time. The scents of overheated machinery and strong coffee hit Steve like a wave; half-built suits of armor littered the floor and lined the walls, and ghostly blue holographic displays hovered midair, displaying unintelligible schematics. The distant crackle of a tool in use underscored pounding rock music, completing the organized disaster that was Tony’s workshop.  


“This isn’t what I pictured when I heard the word laboratory,” Bucky murmured with relief, his deep voice blending in with the thumping undertones of the music. His eyes were wide and curious, sweeping the piles of tech and floating diagrams. “This is more what I imagined how the future would look.” He nudged a stray faceplate with a boot.  


The music abruptly cut off, Jarvis’s disembodied voice ringing crisply in its place, “Sir, Captain Rogers and his associate are here to see you.”  


Bucky tensed, eyes furtively darting around the room.  


“His artificial intelligence,” Steve reassured him, watching Bucky’s defensive posture turn to bewilderment.  


Tony popped out from around a pile of circuitry and monolithic machinery like a startled ferret. He looked like he’d just lost a fight with a robot: singe marks and grease stains marred his t-shirt, his hair was a disheveled mess, and deeper circles hung under his eyes than Bucky’s when he’d first shown up in his apartment.  


“Capsicle! Here in my lab? You never call, you never write!” he strolled over, wiping his hands off on his pants, “You said you had something for me? Please tell me it’s not this scruffy pile of muscles. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I already have a full inventory with the security team – unnecessary if you ask me, or at least will be, but-”  


“I’m not scruffy,” Bucky objected quietly, rubbing his chin.  


“No, Tony –” Steve interjected, or else he was unlikely going to get a word in in the next five minutes. “This is –” Steve blew out a breath, the gratitude and wonderment that Bucky was really here swimming over him again. “This is Bucky-”  


Tony blinked hard, striding past Steve. “Bucky? As in Bucky Barnes? No way.” Tony snagged the sunglasses right off of Bucky’s startled face and peered at him open-mouthed.  


Bucky swallowed, side-eying Steve, but managed to hold his ground under the scrutiny.  


Tony looked back at Steve, searching for an explanation. “Come on what is this? A BOGO sale? Though please tell me that you didn’t pay mint condition prices – this one looks a little rough around the edges.”  


Steve nodded, skimming over Tony’s reference-laden jargon to cut to the meat of what he meant. “It’s a long story, but trust me, I was more surprised than you are.”  


“Museum wasn’t kidding when they said you two were inseparable. Which – by the way – if anyone was going to be in the Air and Space museum, it should have been me. I think you’ve crashed every plane you’ve been in. Plus, I’ve been to air and space.”  


“You’ve been to space?” Bucky marveled, and Steve’s heart grew two sizes.  


Tony’s expression froze, tight-jawed for a moment before it softened, the spark rekindling in his eyes, “Dear old Dad did say that you were the Commando with the best head for science. So, are you as behind the times as Cap here or did you just find the fountain of youth? Or – don’t tell me – a time machine? Did you bring me a time machine in that duffle bag?”  


Bucky floundered for a moment, chewing on his lip, and exchanged a look with Steve that spoke volumes: exasperation, struggling to keep up with Tony’s overwhelming energy, and the weight of putting his past into words to a stranger. “I’m still catching up,” he said, voice rusty.  


Steve nodded, encouragingly. “And sorry, Tony, no time machine, but a lot of encrypted Hydra intel on hard drives – we’re hoping at least.”  


“Hydra hard drives? Aww Cap you shouldn’t have,” Tony crooned, fingers dancing.  


Bucky set down the bag like an offering, “Hydra captured me at the end of the war.” He took a deep breath and Tony miraculously didn’t interrupt when Bucky tightened his jaw, sidling a little closer to Steve’s side. “They kept me in cryo-freeze when they weren’t using me,” Bucky said with a snarl of disgust. “I’m looking for information on what they did to me. Any mention of a red book that belonged to Zola or a string of Hydra heads since him: Elliot Fairbanks, Aleksander Lukin, Vasily Karpov, or Alexander Pierce. If any of them are still alive, locations of their bases, records of their projects.”  


Tony sobered, tearing his eyes away from the bag he had just unzipped to regard Bucky. “J, start running searches on those bastards, along with our friend James Buchanan Barnes here.”  


“Of course, Sir,” the British voice answered primly. “Shall I prioritize those names in the decryption and analysis of the released SHIELD data?”  


“Add them to the list,” Tony confirmed before turning back to Steve. “Seriously, did I miss throwback to World War Two week? No one told me! Cap and his pal Bucky back together, the Nazis at it again - seriously though, I was only a few hours away. Come on – needing to disable flying gunships and you didn’t think to call me in on that?”  


Steve sighed. “No offense, Tony, but not only were we on an abbreviated timeline, no one was sure who to trust. Fury said that you had helped design the upgrades to the engines.”  


Tony was actually silent nearly a full minute, opening and closing his mouth before shaking his head tightly. “You wound me, Cap. Sure, I helped with the tech, but if I had any idea that Hydra had been at the helm I would have never.” His posture straightened, eyes sharp and cold. “Besides, hypocrite much? We both worked with SHIELD even after the World Security Council thought that sending a nuke to deal with New York was a good idea.”  


Steve pinched between his eyes. “Come on, Tony – can you blame me? My own STRIKE team was Hydra. Besides, I thought that you had accessed SHIELD’s secure files back on the first helicarriers.”  


“Even SHIELD’s secrets have secrets!” Tony blustered, gesticulating angrily. “I got access to what Fury had access to at the time. And we all know how it turned out for him when he learned more.”

Bucky drew in on himself, slipping out the path between him and Tony. Steve flinched, hoping to draw attention away from Bucky at the mention of Fury. “You still knew about the helicarriers. You didn’t read me in on those, either.”

Tony crossed his arms. “Fury had some good ideas, just the wrong people helming the project. And I get that – I know what it’s like to have people in your corner you think you can trust.”  


“ _Good ideas?!_ ” Steve boggled. How could Tony be so misguided? “Policing the world through _fear?_ I was ready to quit SHIELD when I learned about Insight – and that’s before I had any inkling that Hydra was involved!” The Captain America tone slipped back into his voice.  


“ _Protecting_ the world! You can’t expect a handful of ‘remarkable people’ to do it alone!” Tony argued. “We can’t be everywhere at once. We won the battle of New York by the skin of our teeth. What about the war, Steve? That’s what tech is for – _in the right hands._ My mistake was thinking that I could trust my tech in any hands but mine.”  


“What ‘war’, Tony?” Steve looked around the room, and suddenly the dozens of half-built suits painted in uniform blue and gray began to spell out a pattern that chilled Steve’s blood. “What are you working on here?”  


Tony gestured to the robots, “The Iron Legion? This isn’t Insight! It’s a firewall for the planet! It’s protection – I can position these around the globe to be there in minutes if there’s an attack: something to hold off a hostile invasion long enough for us to get there! Or – better yet – let everyone, ourselves included, not even have to fight!”  


“Tony,” Steve winced, looking again at the smudge of grease on his cheeks, the manic look in his eyes, “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”  


“You – have you been talking with Pepper?! Come on Cap – you of all people should know what war does! The world is getting bigger, and we have to be ready for whatever comes next!”  


“There’s always a fight. There’s always a war.” Bucky’s eyes darted furtively between the two of them, and Steve swore he saw a flicker in the air around him for just a moment. His voice was tired. “It doesn’t change.”  


Tony blinked rapidly, seeming to remember that there was someone else in the room, “What?”  


“Bucky didn’t have the luxury of seventy years asleep on ice,” Steve said, regret staining his voice. “He’s been fighting on and off for decades against his will, Tony.”  


Tony took a long breath, shaking out his hands, and visibly refocusing himself to the task at hand. “Then he knows what I mean.” Reaching into what looked like just a pile of scrap metal, he withdrew a cup of thick, green liquid and took a sip. “So what _did_ they do to him? What should I be looking for?” Tony asked, abruptly rewinding the conversation. “Any other key words I can keep an eye out for? Help me out here.”  


Bucky met Steve’s eyes and nodded quietly.  


“They enhanced him, and then brainwashed him,” Steve said, barely keeping the anger from his voice, “wiped his memory, used him as an assassin. They called him the Winter Soldier when they weren’t just referring to him as their asset.”

“J – pull up available information on the Winter Soldier.” A dozen screens swarmed them, playing footage from D.C., grainy security camera recordings that had been unearthed in the data dump, and scrolling pages of text.  


Bucky adhered to Steve’ side, face draining of color as the videos assaulted him like accusations from all sides. Steve threw an arm around his shoulder. “Tony, shut those off – he doesn’t need to see all this!”  


Tony held up his hand, pausing the videos. One of them froze on a distant shot of Bucky and Sam’s mid-air battle. “Wait, _he_ was the D.C. shooter?” Tony looked between Bucky – stony silent – and back to Steve, meeting his eyes for a moment.  


Steve cleared his voice. “We’re also hoping to find more evidence to clear his name – to show that he was being controlled against his will. And, when we’re ready, good lawyers.”  


“I might know a few of those,” Tony clasped his hands behind his back, turning back to the screen. “Interesting tech by the way – what are those, flight suits?” He looked to Bucky with a cocked brow. “A little on the nose with the matching horns, but cute.”  


Bucky’s eyes flicked to Steve, and he ran his bottom lip under his teeth. “Organic,” he corrected uneasily. “Mine at least. Wilson’s was a suit which… I might have broken.” His words were a little too measured, Bucky keeping his eyes cast downwards. “I was also kinda hoping you might be able to help out with that, too.” Bucky nodded to the other large bag Steve carried with them.  


“Now you’re speaking my language. Who designed the tech? Lockheed? Hammer?” He snorted derisively, “Doesn’t matter, I can do more than fix it – I can upgrade that shitty turn radius, replace those clunky manual controls with a synaptic link…” Tony blinked, waving aside a set of notes he’d already typed into another digital keyboard, “But back up: tell me more about this ‘organic’ wing set. I’m afraid you missed Bruce – he’s been out for… well, he’s the bio-organics expert.”  


Bucky looked to Steve, waiting for his nod before he took a breath and continued, “The book I’m looking for contained, among other things, a ritual that Hydra used to change me,” Bucky’s voice shook, but he pressed on, determination crystallized in the set of his jaw, “into a demon. I’m hoping it also contains a cure.”  


“’Ritual? Demon?’” Tony echoed, voice dripping with undisguised skepticism. “Cap, please tell me that your sidekick here doesn’t actually believe in magic?”  


“I didn’t and then I got turned into a goddamned demon,” Bucky said with an unsettlingly animalistic growl overlaying his words.  


Tony’s eyes raked over Bucky before returning to the still, “J, enhance this image.” The screen zoomed in on the two figures, shimmering for a moment before the image resolved into crystal clarity: Bucky’s batlike wings in stark outline mid-swoop, his tail in a smooth arc as it acted like a rudder. “Well, you look nothing like your online profile,” Tony drawled.  


“This is an illusion.” Bucky said stiffly. “I’d rather not drop it here; I’m not in a damn freak show. This isn’t why I came here.” His voice grew louder and sharper with each word.  


“Like Loki,” Steve supplied, trying to help keep the peace. “You weren’t arguing with his magic.”  


Tony’s face ticked at the mention of his name. “Science. Even Sir Goldilocks admitted that what they call magic is just science I haven’t had the chance to examine yet!”  


Steve pulled a face.  


“Look, whatever –it doesn’t matter. You want my help finding this magic book? Fine. I’m just saying, you might want to talk to Banner about possible genetic tampering before you go reaching for the Ouija board option. Whenever he gets back.”  


“Thanks, Tony,” Steve said sincerely. “Why don’t you let us know when he is; we’re not above writing anything out, right, Buck?”  


Bucky didn’t respond; his eyes were a thousand miles away, and he was chewing the inside of his cheek. “Buck?” Steve called again.  


Bucky blinked, looking startled back to Steve before shrugging with a dubious frown. “Sure,” he deadpanned. “Tests,” he swallowed, shoulders rigid.  


Steve heard his breath coming in short, quick breaths. But before Steve had the chance to turn and ask him if he was all right, Bucky snapped back to the present, his mouth a hard line. “There’s more,” Bucky stepped out from Steve’s protective arm, pushing himself forward to face Tony. “You deserve to know, and you deserve to hear it from me.”  


Something was off; there was a desperation in Bucky’s eyes that hadn’t been there since the first few days after he’d shown up at his apartment. Warning bells began to ring in Steve’s head. “Bucky, I’m not sure –”  


“No, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was deathly flat, “He needs to hear this. One of the missions that Hydra sent me on was to stage a fatal car accident.”  


Tony stiffened, eyes widening, but Bucky didn’t slow his confession. “There were two targets: Howard Stark, and his wife, Maria. I’m sorry, Tony,” Bucky croaked.  


“What?” Tony went rail-still, breath punched out of him. Then, a tremor took hold of his arms. “And you knew this?” Tony whirled on Steve, his voice pitched in betrayal.  


“It wasn’t his fault, Tony! Hydra _brainwashed_ him!” Steve shouted back.  


“You came _here_ to my _home_ with… with that _thing?!_ ” Tony swept his hand angrily to the floating image of Bucky, snarling and demonic, poised to attack Sam. “Are you sure he hasn’t been tainted by something from _out there_ , Steve? You’ve had your eyes opened to the threats – it’s a big universe!”  


“Tony! He’s not dangerous! Formidable, sure, but he’s not a threat! Not now that he’s free from Hydra!”  


“I don’t give a damn!” Tony snarled. “You come here asking for my help? And just- just casually decide to drop that your _best fucking friend murdered my parents?!_ ” Tony made a sharp gesture with his hand, and from the other side of the workshop, a gauntlet came flying to him, engulfing his right hand. He raised his palm towards Bucky, the center blazing blue-white with an ear-splitting hum as it powered up.  


Bucky just stood there, as if tied before a firing squad, chest heaving in rapid, shallow breaths. His eyes were manic, desperate, almost like he was waiting for this.  


“Tony! Stop this!” Steve threw himself between them, glaring Tony down. “You’re not thinking straight!”  


Wild-eyed, hysterical, Tony transferred his rage to Steve. “My father made you who you are! He was your friend. I thought _I_ was your friend. But you’re taking his side?!”  


“You are. That’s why we came here, Tony. I trusted you.” Steve held his ground, stressing his words.  


“Apparently not enough to think I wasn’t working for fucking _Hydra_ ,” he spat. “I guess we don’t really know each other at all, _Captain_.” He dropped his arm sharply, the trilling reactor quieting. “Get the hell out of here – both of you – before I change my mind.”  


Steve swallowed, hesitating for a moment, but Tony turned his back sharply, stalking back into the depths of the workshop. Steve shook his head, expelling a long breath, “C’mon, Buck,” He murmured quietly, but the words didn’t seem to find their way to Bucky. He still stood numbly, fixed to the spot.  


Gently, Steve set his hands on Bucky’s trembling shoulders and steered him towards the waiting, open elevator, leaving both bags behind.  


Bucky remained silent, eyes pointed at the floor until they had stepped outside the confines of Stark Tower. Only then, did he find his voice, quiet and wavering, “You shouldn’t have stopped him.”  


Steve stopped, dumbfounded. “What? Bucky – you can’t be serious!” Tony had his share of trauma from the conflicts he’d been thrown into. He was a civilian, not a soldier, ad was unpredictable and narcissistic on a good day. It was a bad idea to expose him to Bucky, still so freshly traumatized himself, when their baggage clashed so directly. But Bucky had seemed so convinced earlier that morning that it was the right thing to do. He should have seen it for the red flag it was. “Tony’s wrong, Bucky: you are _not_ responsible for what Hydra made you do.”  


Bucky shrugged, voice croaking. “But I still did it.”  


Bucky must have see the wince that crossed Steve’s face because his eyes slid back downwards and a scowl buried into his cheeks.  


“He’ll come around: he just needs some time to process and cool down,” Steve tried to belatedly reassure him.  


Bucky shook his head, unable or unwilling to lift his eyes from his shoes, and refused to say anything else. Despite several attempts Steve made to lure him into a conversation, Bucky remained silent for the duration of the trip home, giving no indication that he even registered Steve’s words.  


When they made it back to Steve’s apartment, Bucky walked straight to his room, slid the door closed, and shut himself away from Steve and the rest of the world.  


Steve leaned his head against the separating door, “Bucky, please: talk to me.”  


Silence was his only answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again so much for following, commenting, and enjoying this huge passion project from both of us. Updates might be a bit sporadic for a while - I was just diagnosed last week with thyropid cancer, and that has left me shaken to say the least.
> 
> The bright side, is that apparently if you have to get cancer, thyroid cancer is the one to get - it is the most survivable sort to get - and after treatments, other than needing to be on thyroid replacement hormones for the rest of my life, it shouldn't affect my health and longevity. 
> 
> So thank you all, again, for having this interaction with you all, sharing the passion project, and everything be a huge good thing in my life.
> 
> ALSO - please check out chapter 15 again - the art from juefeifeifei is complete and it is GORGEOUS!!!  
> You can also see it here directly: [ here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/180623354708/so-i-just-got-in-the-most-amazing-commission-from)  
> 


	20. Chapter 20

  


He hadn’t remembered killing Howard until that morning. How could he have forgotten _that_!? Now that visage, unearthed like a body in a shallow grave, was rotting in his brain. Every time Bucky closed his eyes, Howard Stark’s look of recognition and shock was there, “Sergeant Barnes?” on his lips. It had been only enough to make him pause; to blow away a bit of cobwebs from his mind and summon a sense of wrongness, but not nearly enough to still his hand from the geas that pushed him onward.

Every time Bucky tried to think of something else, he saw his own twisted, demonic hand slam into his face once – twice, until Howard fell lifeless onto the pavement. He watched himself drag his corpse back into the vehicle to stage a tragic accident. But worst of all was having to see the anguish of his wife widowed before her eyes – knowing the same fate closed in on her. He hadn’t been able to watch her face as he squeezed the life from her throat, but the brief, strangled noises she made, the wet sobs that he cut off were enough to leave deep scars in his memory.

In hindsight, he hadn’t been in the best headspace when he’d gone to see Tony, but he had a lot of practice at pretending to be doing better than he was.

He had been right to go see Tony. He had been _right_ to bring him this Truth like a cat bringing a dead bird to his master. He had _earned_ every bit of anger and disgust that Tony had hurled at him. He had earned all of that and more. Tony was the only goddamned person who had had anything close to an appropriate reaction to the monster he had become. He needed to be confronted with the evils he had committed – to see the damage his actions had brought forward into the present and the people who still hurt because of _him_. He hadn’t just murdered the people Hydra had sent him after; he’d caused ripples of pain that were still being felt today.

Bucky turned over on the pile of shredded mattress foam. Distantly, the smell of cooling food beckoned from the other side of the door, but Bucky ignored it. Instead, he sunk into the clawing hunger in his stomach and wrapped his wings tighter around himself.

*

A soft knock tapped at the door. “Bucky? I just want to make sure you’re still in there. You haven’t touched the food I left.”

Bucky turned over, grunting, and threw an arm over his eyes. He wasn’t even sure if he’d been asleep or awake, but sunlight penetrated the curtains drawn over the window. Had it been a day? Two? His dry tongue swept over cracked lips, and his stomach gnawed insistently, but the thought of eating made him nauseous.

A sigh heaved from the other side of the door. “Okay… I’ll leave you alone, Buck, but you gotta eat soon, allright?”

Joke’s on Steve - he’d gone much longer without food before.

*

Bucky growled as another, louder knock shook the door, curling in on himself. The lock was still broken from the time Steve had barged in after his nightmare, but Steve had at least respected what a closed door stood for. So far.

“Bucky – I know you’ve got to be hungry. At least take the tray I left?”

“What’s the point!?” he snarled.

“Please eat something? I’m worried about you.”

 _I’d like to eat_ you _… swallow your cock down –_ Fuck! He turned over, wrapping the pillow around his head to muffle a frustrated growl, tail slapping against the remains of the mattress.

_This godforsaken existence! Trapped in this fucking body – even if I’m not being controlled and forced to do terrible things, it’s still pulling on my damn reins!_

He couldn’t escape it! He’d tried and the only things he’d found were more reminders of just how despicable of a creature he had become. For all the shit that they’d dredged up with visiting the Hydra-infested bank vault and Stark’s tower, they still didn’t have any new leads. He shouldn’t even be thinking of himself, of trying to find a cure – but Bucky was selfish.

Fucking selfish.

What would a cure even fix? It certainly wouldn’t bring Howard or Maria back. Maybe Steve wouldn’t even want to be with him anymore if he didn’t _have_ to be, no matter what Steve said to the contrary.

He didn’t _deserve_ to be with Steve anyway.

“Go away!” Bucky finally shouted back, his dry throat sandpaper against raw words.

“Not until you at least drink some water,” Steve countered, stubborn as a goddamned mule.

Bucky growled again, an irritated tomcat’s tone.

“I know you’ve got to be thirsty,” Steve pressed. He’d probably been sleeping in the damned living room, hoping to catch him sneaking off to the kitchen or bathroom in the middle of the night. Is this how annoying he’d been when he’d played nursemaid to a sick Steve?

Bucky remained resolutely quiet for a good five minutes, but the shadow of Steve’s feet still blocked the light at the base of the doors and the sound of his even breathing continued unabated.

“You’re not going to let up until I do, are you?” Bucky grunted.

“Nope!” Steve called back cheerily.

_Asshole._

Finally, with a groan, Bucky rolled over onto his knees, pushed himself up, and stalked over to the door. He slid it open, accosting Steve with a glare, knowing full well that he probably looked like an absolute mess: in his _true_ form, with matted hair, stained, torn clothing, and smelling exactly he’d expect someone who’d lain in bed for the better part of a week to smell.

To Steve’s credit, he didn’t even flinch. Instead, he immediately pressed a tall glass of ice water into his hands with one of his damn sad-smiles. “Thank you, Buck.” The fresh aroma of bacon and eggs nearly overpowered him. Had he any moisture left in his mouth, he’d be drooling. Steve was obviously making a concentrated effort to lure him out.

Bucky squinted at Steve, the sunlight filling the common rooms bright and oppressive, but took a drink anyway in demonstration, hating how good it felt on his parched throat.

“I know you’re in there punishing yourself, but I couldn’t let you just rot in that room, Buck,” Steve said.

“Oh you couldn’t _let_ me?” Bucky snarled, spines unsheathing. “Are you going to give me some standing orders, _Master?!_ ”

“You know what I mean,” Steve pressed, not allowing Bucky’s accusations to hit. “Stop trying to push me away – it’s not going to work.”

Bucky dramatically downed the glass of water by pitching his head back and taking four large gulps, staring daggers at Steve all the while. Finished, he pushed the glass back into Steve’s chest with a scowl. “There, I drank it. Happy?”

“Look, I wanted to give you some time, Bucky – and I did – but I can’t just stand by while you hurt yourself.”

“I’m not hurting myself,” Bucky countered, knowing full well how unconvincing he sounded.

“Maybe not directly, but what do you call holing up in a dark room for days without eating or drinking, beating yourself up over something that happened in the past that you can’t change?”

Bucky shrugged. _Stop trying to make me feel better, Steve. I don’t deserve to feel good._ “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best for me, but have you thought that maybe – just maybe – what’s best for everyone else is if I wasn’t here?!”

Steve squared his shoulders, the muscle jumping in his jaw. “I don’t believe that for a moment, Bucky. You think I’d be happy if something happened to you? You think that lying there in misery is helping anyone? Even Tony? You want to start to make the world a better place, cutting yourself out of it now that you’re finally _free_ isn’t going to do it. You have the ability to help, Buck. But you’ve got to start with yourself."

Bucky sighed, lacking the strength to protest any more. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Come on, there’s breakfast – and I’ve got some news for you,” Steve baited.

With a grunt, Bucky stepped across the threshold of the room, irritated at the flicker of hope that sparked in his chest – even now. _Just more opportunity for disappointment and pain._

The eggs and bacon pulled a thread of Bucky out of the knotted mat of his misery, enough to remind himself of just how bad he’d let himself get. Despite himself, one bite turned into two, into three, into having devoured the heaping pile of food Steve had laid before him.

“Wipe that damn smile off your face, Rogers,” Bucky grunted, “What’s the fucking news?”

“I heard from Sam. He and Nat got some intel from the bank vault.”

And damn if that didn’t make Bucky pick his head up. “Do you know what they found out?”  
  
Steve shook his head, “I didn’t want to ask over the phone, but I told Sam we’d pick him up in D.C. and give him a ride back home.”

Bucky’s tail wound around the leg of the chair. “Probably just getting our hopes up over nothing.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But they’ve gone out on the line for us, and I trust them when they say they have something,” Steve said.

Bucky frowned. For _me_ , Steve meant. But Steve was right: Bucky owed Sam his time at the very least for risking his neck for his problems. Natasha, too, though he’d yet to meet her properly. Going to D.C., giving Sam a lift, and gathering information for – hopefully – another step they could take: it was a mission. He could do this. One foot in front of the other. “Yeah, all right,” he said, bereft of enthusiasm.

“Besides, while we’re there, there’s someone else I’d like you to meet.”

Bucky gave Steve a look that he hoped conveyed every ounce of the exhaustion on his shoulders, “Someone _else_?” He’d already met two new people, and one of those meetings had gone tits up.

“Trust me,” Steve said, and how the hell could he argue with that?

Bucky got up, attempting to prepare himself for a day of disappointment and more reminders of the damage he’d caused. “Whatever you say, Steve,” Bucky sighed in the same tone he once used to use when Steve insisted that it was just ‘a little cold’.

Steve rose alongside him, catching his sleeve. “Before we go out, do you need – ah, are you _hungry?”_ Steve raised his brows, making it evident he didn’t mean for more food.

“I’m fine,” Bucky clipped, “I don’t – I don’t want to feed.” It wasn’t dire, and the thought of letting Steve be intimate with him right now almost made him lose what little food he had in his stomach. “I’ll get showered, clean up,” he murmured, plucking at the stained shirt with a look of distaste.

Steve nodded, “Do what you need to do. I’ll meet you out here when you’re ready.”

*

Bucky spent most of the drive to D.C. staring silently out the window of the car and trying to ignore Steve’s conversation starters. Eventually, Steve got the hint and turned on the stereo, and Bucky found himself tapping his foot despite himself to the unfamiliar rhythms of the upbeat music.

While the style of the songs was different than he remembered, the lyrics were catchy, and the tempo still sounded like music he could dance to if he had a mind to. Bucky side-eyed Steve, who barely suppressed a knowing smile. Asshole knew what he was doing.

“If you think good tunes alone are going to lighten my mood, you’re wrong, Rogers.”

“It got you to talk, didn’t it?” Steve sassed back.

Bucky crossed his arms indignantly, but felt a traitorous quirk at the corner of his mouth. His foot didn’t stop tapping along to the beat, however, though he slid his eyes closed for the rest of the ride. He slipped into the melodies, envisioning ways he might dance to them, allowing the music to edge out some of the dark thoughts in favor of movement and light.

Bucky cracked open an eye when Steve turned on his blinker to exit the highway, and was surprised to note that they bypassed the heart of the city, swinging instead to the North end where D.C. bordered Maryland, driving past affluent homes and lush parks.

Bucky was just about to finally give in and ask where they were headed when Steve turned into a long driveway, a monument-style stone sign declaring the location to be “Ingleside Engaged Living”. A large red-brick building sat at the top of the small hill surrounded by walking trails, meticulous landscaping, gazebos and benches. A few old ladies with short, curly white hair sat by a pond feeding ducks, and another couple of seniors knelt in front of garden plots by smaller cottages. Bucky levied a suspicious glare at Steve. “I know I’m pushing a hundred and have memory issues, but don’t you dare drop me off at an old folk’s home. I’m still only a year older than you.”

Steve chuckled, but there was a tightness around his eyes. “Course not.” He wet his lips, summoning a hint of mirth from God-knew-where, “Place like this? Too nice for a couple of old bastards like us anyway.”

That fished a half-smile out of Bucky as they parked and got out of the car. Self-consciously, Bucky slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, but the only look the pair of them received when they walked through the large double-doors to the receptionist area was a welcoming smile.

“Steve – it’s good to see you again. And you brought a friend!” A young woman with auburn hair in neat pin curls greeted him, rising to her feet. She wore a nametag on her collar identifying her as Nancy. “Does she know you’re coming?”

“I gave her a call this morning,” Steve said, but doubt lingered in his voice.

“She’s having a good day today,” Nancy reassured him, “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to have visitors.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, but followed Steve and Nancy down a corridor to a room, where she knocked gently, “Peggy? There’s someone here to see you.”

“Well then see them in, won’t you Nancy?” The voice was unmistakable. Bucky’s stomach dropped to his knees and his head jerked to Steve. She was still alive? It had never even occurred to him, but all of the times Steve had mentioned her, he _had_ used present tense. Bucky swallowed, shoving down the attitude he’d been carrying since he left his room that morning as the door opened and Steve stepped inside ahead of him. A habit nearly as old as he was insisted he be on his best behavior around Agent Carter. If he wasn’t, then he’d get a verbal lashing that could strip paint. Of course she’d still be alive. Even Death himself probably shook in his boots at the idea of taking Peggy anywhere she didn’t care to go.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Nancy smiled to them, opening the door and turning to go, “Ring if you need anything.”

“Steve,” Peggy smiled as Steve walked in ahead of him, and Bucky froze statue-still in the doorway. There she was: looking every bit her 93 years, and the true depth of the time that had been stolen from him rendered him breathless. Peggy sat in a plush chair by the window, a tea service set before her, her hair falling in grey curls over her shoulder. Her _eyes_ however: her brown eyes were clear and discerning they raked over Steve. “Thank you for coming. You must be terribly upset – I should have listened to your concerns regarding the agency. Had I known-“

Steve sat down beside her, laying a hand over hers, “Peggy, it’s not your fault. No one knew: that was the point.”

“It’s no excuse,” Peggy corrected him, still adamant. “That – that _cancer_ growing in SHIELD – it had been there from the beginning. _My_ beginning. I’m afraid that I’ve failed rather spectacularly in my legacy,” She chuckled humorlessly.  
  
Steve took a deep breath in through his nose, “You helped create SHIELD to protect the world from threats larger than the public could know about. It served that purpose. It’s thanks to the wheels you set into motion that we assembled to stop the Invasion of New York. There are people, _good_ people, who are still out there fighting the good fight because of your hard work, Peg.”

“I know,” Peggy sighed, “These nurses have _attempted_ to limit my computer access since the data dump – I think they’re worried I might attempt to crawl out of retirement if not for their blasted mollycoddling.”

This time, some mirth found its way back into Steve’s expression, “I bet you would.”

An answering smile tugged at Peggy’s lips, but her eyes slid past Steve and traveled to the shadow in the doorway. “Now who is it you brought to visi-” she stiffened, blinking rapidly. “ _James_?” Peggy breathed, confidence wavering. “You’re alive? And still so young…” Her hands twisted in the knit blanket spread over her lap, the veins prominent under her thin, pale skin. “I’m not slipping…?” She looked to Steve for confirmation.

Steve shook his head solemnly, his eyes suddenly moist. “I found him, Peg. Or, more accurately, he found me.”

Peggy’s eyes hardened and she made an effort to sit up straighter. “How is it possible? And don’t you dare sugarcoat your answer for the sake of my _nerves_ ,” She admonished before Steve could even open his mouth.

Steve fidgeted, brushing an invisible piece of lint from his trousers. “It seems I wasn’t the only one who wound up frozen for the better part of the twentieth century.”

“I’d argue the worse,” Peggy sighed, beckoning Bucky forward. “I do not believe you would have enjoyed the Cold War, Steve. It was a world of spies.” She spoke to Steve, but her eyes remained fixed on Bucky.

Bucky drifted into her room like a ghost. His eyes traced over pill bottles, family photos that boasted generations of Carters, and children’s’ drawings; his nose crinkled at the sharp hospital smells that lingered beneath the warming aroma of tea. “Hey, Peg,” he said softly, and damn if his eyes weren’t already stinging.

Peggy scoffed, “Come now, I may be old but your voice isn’t going to shatter me, Barnes.”

Bucky took a seat on her other side, sweeping his gloved hand through his hair. He’d thought that Steve was the last person on Earth that remembered him as Sergeant Barnes; he was glad to be proven wrong. A world that still possessed a Peggy Carter was one that he had managed to not completely fuck up through the machinations of Hydra.

“Look at you,” She reached out unabashedly to touch his hair. “I see you chose to borrow some notes from my stylist.”

Bucky huffed, “Yeah, well it’s kind of grown on me.” He chuckled at Peggy’s grimace.

“Still making awful jokes, however.” She shook her head. “Now, listen to him – he won’t give me an answer, but you were always a straight shooter.”

Bucky exchanged a glance with Steve, weighing her question for a long breath before cautiously asking, “Did you ever hear of the Winter Soldier?”

Her eyes widened immediately and Bucky flinched inwardly. “It was _you_?” She was still sharp as a damn tack. Peggy let out a shaking breath, glancing at the small, boxy television in the corner of her room. Although it was off, she kept her eyes focused on her reflection in the darkened screen. “Of course we heard rumors for decades, but it was never enough to pursue; never enough to even prove that it was a single operative.” Her face tightened, remorse written in every line of her face.

“Many of us had our theories as to his – or their – identity, but I never imagined…” She trailed off, closing her eyes. “I had to learn from the damn telly that the Winter Soldier was even connected to Hydra. We’d assumed the Soviets of course, or Leviathan or a number of other smaller factions, never did we imagine that Hydra had survived to infiltrate so much.” She turned her brown eyes on Bucky, voice tremulous, “Dare I ask how?”

“Hydra found me after I fell.” He grimaced, “Once they had me, they continued their experiments. Then they had a variety of methods in their toolkit to force me to work for them.” He laced his fingers together, “When they didn’t have a need for me, they froze me.”

“All these secrets I kept, only to learn later how much I _didn’t_ know: Hydra, you, all under my nose,” Peggy moaned.

Bucky tentatively placed a hand over Peggy’s, unnerved by just how thin and fragile it felt under his own. “It’s not your fault,” Bucky murmured. Peggy was the last person he’d blame. Even after learning she’d been the director of SHIELD for decades, he would never believe that she had been compromised.

“Don’t you dare placate me, Sergeant,” her voice turned sharp.

Bucky shook his head, “No placating, ma’am. If you _had_ learned more, you probably would have wound up as one of my targets.”

“You’re assuming that I wouldn’t have bested you, Barnes,” she shot back with an impish smile, and it was impossible not to see the capable agent behind those eyes.

“Fair enough,” Bucky conceded, smiling fondly and discovering that his throat had grown tight. “Still, I’m glad you had _this,_ ” he gestured to the photos that haloed her, “A family, a career, a _life._ I’m sorry that it wasn’t the one that you were meant to have,” Bucky looked pointedly to Steve, “I tried my damndest to hook you two up.”

“Bucky-” Steve started, voice plaintive, but Peggy waved her hand, shushing him.

“But it _was_ , James. Steve is not my biggest regret; as a point of fact, I don’t regret him at all.” She settled back against the plush chair, turning a fond look to Steve. “I did love Steve, and when we all thought he died, I mourned him.” Her voice shook, and she took a steadying breath, her frail hands closing into loose fists. “But then, I moved on. He continued to inspire me long after we parted, and I lived a lifetime after him.” She patted Steve’s hand. “Mistakes were made in SHIELD,” She looked pointedly to Bucky, “and I’m afraid I lost sight of some of the details along the way. At the time, however, I made the best decisions I could. I know the difference I made, and the lives that I saved in the process. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, too. But, I’m happy you’re here now – _together_.”

Bucky nodded, knowing that his voice would crack if he were to try to speak. She knew. Steve had said as much, but hearing it confirmed felt _surreal_. For years he’d pushed Steve towards her, seeing her as his only real hope for a happy ending. Now, here they were seventy years later, together again, and Peggy was returning the damn favor.

“About SHIELD,” Steve began, careening obliviously through the conversation with as much subtlety as a bull in a china shop. “I made the call to tear it down. You deserve to know that.”

She looked sternly to Steve, “ _Good._ I’m glad. We both had our run, and now you – _both_ of you – have the opportunity that I don’t: none of us can go back, but you can start over. Make it better. Live your lives,” she set a hand on each of their knees, “And for God’s sake, Barnes, you teach that man how to dance.”

That surprised a laugh out of Bucky. “You’re trying to tell me that Steve never fucking learned how?”

“No,” Peggy deadpanned, “The dance I waited seventy years for was _not worth it_.” She leveled a mock-glare at Steve, “Stepping on a poor old woman’s toes.”

Steve dipped his head, blushing.

“You know how many different martial arts, Steve, and you still can’t dance?” Bucky shook his head, “That’s a crying shame.”

“Good man, James.” Peggy patted their knees. “Now, unless you want to help an old woman with her medications, I’m going to have to ask you to excuse me.”

Steve snapped to attention like a dog watching his person throw a ball. “Peggy, I’d be happy to help with anything-”

Peggy waved him off, “Get out of here you two. You don’t need to see this. But, come visit me again sometime,” she caught Bucky’s eye, “both of you.”

Bucky hung back a few paces behind Steve, giving Peggy an understanding nod with a look he hoped conveyed more than his simple words of parting.

Leaving the facility, Bucky felt like a different person from the man who had walked in. The dark cloud that had been caught in his head like sticky cobwebs had been drawn out, evaporating in the daylight. A melancholy nostalgia took its place, along with a bone-deep appreciation for what he still had left. “Thank you for taking me to see her,” Bucky choked out as they got back into the car.

Steve nodded. “Sometimes, when I don’t know where else to turn, I visit Peggy. She’s always been smarter than me, and that hasn’t changed.” Steve fastened his seatbelt and squeezed the leather of the steering wheel. “I’m glad you got to see her on a good day.”  
  
Bucky threaded his fingers, “It must be hard,” he swallowed, “when she’s not.”

Steve worked his jaw for a moment, the key sitting forgotten in the ignition. “For a while after you turned back up, I was real scared. Peggy – she’s got good days and bad, but it’s … she’s not getting better, you know? And after _everything_ Hydra put you through, even what incomplete picture I’ve got, I don’t know if I would have been able to hold it together. I don’t know if you see it, Buck, but you’ve made a lot of headway since you appeared in my apartment. Just because you had… a bad couple of days… it doesn’t mean that you’re not making headway.”

Bucky shrugged, fidgeting with his glove, keeping his eyes down. “I’m glad you see it,” he frowned. “I don’t know if I do, but” he blew out a sigh. “I’m trying.”

“Good,” Steve smiled – too intense to meet head-on. “It might sound selfish to say it, but these moments of clarity with Peggy, it was only ever enough to remind me of how fragile my connection to my past was. It felt like what little I had of my home was slipping between my fingers,” Steve set a warm hand on Bucky’s thigh. “I’m glad you’re back, Buck. Peg’s right- we’ve got a chance again, together.”

Bucky swallowed, his heart giving a tremulous flutter in his chest. How could he argue with Peggy?

Steve pressed on. “I know you’ve had it hard, but I’m here for you. And if there is anything I can do – _anything_ – don’t hesitate to ask. Big or small. You deserve good things.” When Bucky rolled his eyes, Steve shook his head, speaking more emphatically, “Sam told me to tell you that even little things that make your day a little nicer - like a tasty meal or a warm bath - they can serve as reminders there are good things in life. It can help.”

Bucky cleared his throat, trying to jar loose the stubborn frog that refused to dislodge. If he wasn’t careful, those tears were gonna start flowing again. “Speaking of Sam, aren’t we supposed to be giving him a lift?”

Steve’s eyes lingered on Bucky, not buying his nonchalance for a moment, but generous enough to not push him. “Yeah,” He gave Bucky’s thigh a squeeze before moving his hand to turn on the ignition. “We’ll head that way.”

And that was all it took to start Bucky’s motor, too. The ghost of Steve’s hand lingered on Bucky’s thigh long after he’d removed it, and Bucky’s thoughts drifted to how that squeeze felt – and what it might feel like squeezing a little higher, or, perhaps, digging into the meat of his ass. Bucky swallowed thickly, shifting in his seat and pointedly ignoring the half-chub between his legs, resolutely fastening his own seatbelt.

Bucky did his damndest to keep the intrusive thoughts at bay for the short ride, but Steve wasn’t making it easy with his stupid-tight shirt and the way he pursed those eminently kissable lips of his every time they hit a red light.

He tapped down the window a few inches, “want some air,” he mumbled, hoping that the airflow and loud hiss of the open window would help deter conversation and keep his damn pheromones from clouding up the small cabin of the car.

“Sorry if it’s stuffy. You know, normally I would have ridden up here on my bike, but that’s not exactly conducive for passengers.” He glanced over, smile quirking his lips, “Well, I mean, you’d fit behind me, but I think Sam might have objected to being sandwiched between us.”

 _Mmm…_ Bucky squirmed, feeling a patch of wetness between his legs as a _very_ vivid mental image sprung to mind. _Not helping, Steve_.

Steve glanced over, his conversational smile faltering as his eyes darted to the flush on Bucky’s cheeks, his own quickly coloring in embarrassment. “Oh shit, it’s been a few days, huh?”

“Yeah,” he growled as Steve’s eyes flitted to Bucky’s lap before snapping back to watch the road.

“I thought you said this morning-”

“I didn’t fucking want to this morning, alright?” Bucky snapped back, “Now quit riding my ass, Rogers.” _Nngh_ \- _Or don’t_ \- Bucky sighed, moderating his tone. _“_ I’ve gone a lot longer before – I’ll be fine. Just watch your damn tongue, all right?”

“I thought you liked my tongue,” Steve said with a positively sinful lick of his lips.

Bucky smacked Steve with a folded up map from the glovebox. “Asshole!”

Steve laughed, shielding his face from Bucky’s map-assault. “You sure you don’t want me to find somewhere to park? Might be a long drive back to New York.”

Well. Bucky’s cock leapt at the suggestion. “You know… one of the most important things a sniper has learn how to do is maintain concentration through-” He let his smile turn absolutely filthy as he slid the shoulder belt behind him, “ _distractions_.”

“I’m not following?” Steve tilted his head like an adorably dense golden retriever.

“Who needs to park?” Bucky emphasized the p in park by dragging his lower lip under his teeth.

“Oh-OH!” Steve jerked as Bucky leaned over, making quick work of Steve’s fly. “Bucky! What if someone sees-ohfuck!”

“Just keep your eyes on the road, Rogers,” Bucky said, flicking Steve’s thigh before taking his cock into his mouth.  
  
Steve’s flustered protests quickly degenerated into bitten-off moans as Bucky demonstrated just how distracting he could be.

*

There was a reason Steve had never been a sniper.

Bucky and Steve arrived at The Green Room a little late, but in _much_ better spirits.

The sparse midafternoon crowd in the tavern hardly risked a glance up as Steve and Bucky entered the building, yet Steve kept glancing around furtively as if he had a sign painted on his face announcing what he just did. He must have checked the front of his trousers three times to make sure his fly was up and there weren’t any obvious stains – as if Bucky would have let any of that go to waste. Bucky bumped his shoulder, “Relax. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself then stop being so conspicuous.” He grinned. Steve would absolutely make a terrible spy.

Steve snorted indignantly, elbowing Bucky right back as he strolled past the seating area to head to a line of booths inset in the far wall. Bucky followed after him, eyes sweeping the room, noting exits and calculating blind spots and defensible positions if the situation were to suddenly turn South. Between the private booths with good sight lines, and being situated just far enough away from Capitol Hill to minimize upscale foot traffic, the dimly lit bar seemed to be built to accommodate discrete meetings.

Sam immediately rose to his feet, flashing Steve a grin before gripping his forearm in a handshake turned mutual back-slap. “Good to see you guys, glad you could make it.” His eyes darted into the booth, and Bucky’s steps faltered as he spied the redhead sizing him up from her seat in the corner.

She was a different person from the last time he’d seen her: her lithe frame was dwarfed in a too-large black tank top decorated with a pair of metallic, stylized inkblot wings. A bold yellow tube top peeked out from the wide slits down the side. Her red hair had been swept up in a scarf piled on her head, and the contouring of her makeup diminished her distinctive cheekbones and gave her face a soft, almost cherubic look, matched with soft peach lipstick.

“Nat!” Steve exclaimed in a stage whisper that would have been comical had Bucky not been poleaxed by her unexpected presence.

“You didn’t say she was going to be here,” Bucky turned to Steve, accusingly.

“I didn’t know-“ He looked questioningly to Sam, but made a point of sliding into the booth across from her, “but I trust her.”

Natasha smiled primly at Steve as Sam took his seat beside her again, but her eyes never left Bucky. “I won’t bite, promise,” she purred.

Bucky glanced back to the door with an indecisive huff before gingerly taking a seat next to Steve. Natasha wore a coy and confident smile, but there was a little too much white around her eyes as they raked Bucky over. An undercurrent of tension ran through her ostensibly reclined posture; her weight distributed evenly in case she needed to move quickly.

Memories flickered through Bucky’s mind like an old silent movie, movements jerky and the resolution grainy: an enemy operative, quick and resourceful; a mission along hairpin turns of a cliffside road in Odessa. Even after sending their vehicle over the ridge, she managed to protect his target, pulling her to safety. He took the only shot available: _through_ her, completing his mission.

He’d shot her again on the causeway, recently enough that she could likely still feel it in her left shoulder. She had every reason not to trust him, and even more to want to see him brought to justice. “Shoot or stab, though: that’s still on the table?” Bucky asked cautiously.

“We’ll see.” Natasha’s smile turned impish, and approval flickered in her eyes. “Believe it or not, I might know a thing or two about switching sides,” Natasha said coolly. “I also know a fair amount about playing double agent. I figured it was about time I meet you face to face.”

“You were a Widow,” Bucky stated.

“ _A_ Widow?” Sam asked, blinking at Natasha. “You trying to tell me there’s more women like her?”

“I will always be a Widow. And there is no one else like me,” Natasha said flatly, keeping her eyes on Bucky.

“What are you doing here, Natasha?” Steve interrupted, keeping his voice low. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I would have liked a heads-up.”

“You could have fooled me.” She crossed her arms, looking pointedly to Bucky. “You should have read me in on this sooner, Rogers,” her eyes flicked to him, “or were you worried that I’d tell you something you didn’t want to hear?”

“No. Nothing you could say would convince me not to trust him.” Steve put a hand over Bucky’s, giving it a squeeze. “And to be fair, you did tell me that you were going to be busy – new covers and all that.”

“I am busy, but that doesn’t mean I’m too busy to help a friend. That’s what you wanted me to be, isn’t it?” Natasha arched a brow.

Steve sighed, “Yes, but we both know that you knew he was staying with me. And I knew how you felt about him.”

“Did you?” Natasha challenged.

Steve sighed, “I knew Sam would get you caught up.” He tilted his head, “You know now, don’t you?”

Natasha’s mouth tugged to the side, the only indication she gave that Steve’s words had mollified her, assuming her annoyance was anything more than a show to begin with.

“He _did_ ask to bring you in,” Bucky murmured quietly, “I wasn’t ready.”

She shifted her posture, crossing a leg and fixed Bucky with a newly appraising look, “You know, you’re not at all like I once imagined.”

“I heard some of the stories they spread about me,” Bucky murmured quietly, wearing a wince blatantly on his face.

“You were the boogie man that scared all the other monsters.” Her lips quirked, “The madams from The Red Room wielded your name as a threat if any of us were to ever betray the program. ‘If the Winter Soldier is sent after you, you are the dead walking.’ she would say. ‘It is relentless, unstoppable, _inhuman.’_ I used to think that part was just a story.”

Bucky looked up at her, resolute, waiting for her to pronounce her judgment upon him just as Tony had.

Instead, she slid an unopened bottle of beer towards him, “here’s to escaping our masters.”

Sam and Steve exchanged a glance, and Bucky blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He effortlessly popped the top from the bottle with the thumb of his left hand and lifted it in a toast, “to directing our own fates.”

She clinked glasses with him, taking a long swig out of her own beer before setting it down heavily. “And evening some of the scores.”

Bucky nodded, posture finally easing as he drank to that.

She reached into a satchel that sat beside her on the booth bench. “And speaking of: I hear you have some bills to settle with Hydra.” She tossed a manila envelope onto the table between them, “I figured you might be like your fossil of a friend and prefer hard copies,” She smirked.

Bucky picked up the folder, “Thank you,” he said emphatically, “I know we probably left you with a clusterfuck to clean up.” He undid the brads, glancing up again, “You too, Sam.”  
  
“It was _no_ problem,” He grinned at Natasha, “Seriously an excuse to work alongside the Black Widow for a few days? You guys were doing _me_ a favor.”

Steve chuckled, “I think she taught me more about hand to hand fighting than I learned during the war.”

“No wonder you finally figured out how to dodge a punch,” Bucky smirked around the mouth of his beer.

“Yeah, combat training. That’s totally what I meant,” Sam smirked.

Natasha nodded towards the folder as Bucky withdrew a few sheets of paper, “Sam told me you were looking for a book. This is all I could find about it: straight from the desk of Alexander Pierce himself. Turns out the secretary had himself a private email account he kept off the SHIELD servers.” She clucked her tongue. “You may not like the rest of the context, however,” she cautioned.

Bucky frowned, pulling the paper free and studying it anyway.

> To: Undisclosed Recipients  
>  From: agpalpha@outoftheshadows.net
> 
> May 24, 2013  
>    
>  After much consideration, the decision has been made to indefinitely sunset the Asset designated Winter Soldier. Over the course of the last seven missions, beginning with 7/14/2012, the Asset has demonstrated increasingly unstable behavior, confusion, and otherwise disconcerting malfunctions. Technician Dr. Bruce Baker has charted a statistical correlation to its increased episodes over time.  
> 
> 
> Please see the following incident reports (attached):
> 
>   * missionreport07142012.pdf: Mission Report: 7/14/2012: Asset unable to repeat back the mission objectives after briefing.
> 
>   * missionreport09212012.pdf: Mission Report: 9/21/2012: Helmand, Afghanistan, during mission the Asset dropped to its knees and grabbed its chest with a scream, disabled its guise, broke cover, and attempted to take flight. STRIKE (Alpha Team) apprehend the Asset: when questioned in debriefing, it reported that its master had been injured and it had to go help. Handler Alexander Pierce was later confirmed to be unharmed.
> 
>   * missionreport12032012.pdf: Mission Report: 12/03/2012: the Asset began to scream immediately upon defrosting, assaulting the lead technician.
> 
>   * missionreport03202013.pdf: Mission Report: 03/20/2013: Upon return to headquarters for maintenance and debriefing, a small children’s toy [Captain America action figure] was located among its arsenal. When questioned, the Asset could not explain why it had taken it.
> 
> 

> 
> Despite having been active in the planning of Phase 2, Col. Karpov has not responded to any requests for access to the ritual tome. At this time, the Asset is not being decommissioned permanently, though moving forward it will only be activated if absolutely necessary. Requests for use will only be considered from Level 8 or above.
> 
> Thank you for your compliance.
> 
>   * Secretary Alexander Pierce
> 
> 


  
Bucky studied the printout, mouth dry, for a few moments before passing it to Steve. “Pierce never had the book,” he said slowly, trying to ignore the disturbing glimpses of what the last several years of his life had been like under Master Pierce. Memories needled at him, flashes of pain, of punishment for thinking he was just following orders. For trying to help his Master. He had to put a steadying hand on the table, hoping that the rest didn’t notice how pale he’d become.

But through the flashes, he couldn’t recall actually seeing Pierce with the red book. “I guess I just assumed Pierce had it,” he tried to put his thoughts into words, “I know Lukin had it... I know Karpov had it, but those – that was back in Siberia.”

“Hey, easy man, you’re doing good.” Sam’s voice soothed.

Bucky ran fingers over his scalp, “So where is it now? Still in Siberia?” He wracked his brain, but already visceral memories were closing in at him. Bucky tried to focus – finding the objective fragments of information devoid of context like used to come to him so easily. Now, that information was burdened with unwanted circumstance. “There were two bases I was kept at, but I can’t… can’t remember _where_.” Bucky’s hands balled into fists in his hair, “Fuck. It would have been where Karpov had been stationed, but where was that?” So close and yet so fucking far. Another dead end. He was right before: this was all going to lead nowhere.

“You know, as it happens, I asked the STRIKE Team Gamma prisoners the exact same question,” Natasha’s smooth voice drew Bucky out of his head, “and one of them was more than happy to answer, when the right amount of leverage was applied.”

Bucky gaped. “I could kiss you!”

“Raincheck,” Natasha waved him off, “Besides, don’t thank me yet. He was surprisingly quick to give up the location,” Natasha tapped at the folder and Bucky slid out more papers, including an aerial photo, “Given that _this_ is what the coordinates show, I’m not certain how reliable that information is. It doesn’t look like there’s anything there on the surface-”

But Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. “I know this place.” While the photo was grainy, the familiar profile of the grey mountains jutting out of a field of snow ignited a fire of recognition. The doors were hidden amidst the natural outcropping, but even in the photograph he could make out the too-square shadows underneath the small rocky ridge. The only other indication that the stretch of rocky, snowy land was anything but an uninhabited, inhospitable frozen series of high-altitude foothills were three disc-shaped patches of “rock”. Twenty meters in diameter and the same dark color as the exposed rock, only the fact that they were a little too perfectly round flagged them as manmade – the metal absorbing the heat of the sun a little too well to keep the snow from building over them. The tops of missile silos.

“It’s a hidden base – it’s all underground. We-“ Bucky faltered for a moment, “had to relocate there after the first Siberian Hydra base was compromised.” He swallowed, squeezing back the memories that swelled like a foreboding tide. _Not now!_ He wasn’t ready – couldn’t deal with _all that_. “I was kept there.”

Natasha leaned back in her seat, humming in consideration, only the briefest tick of her eyebrow indicating her surprise. “Well, I guess you owe me one, then.”

Bucky nodded seriously, “Thank you again, both of you.” He had a direction. A fragile mote of hope flickered in his chest.

Sam shrugged with a smile, “Honestly, I’m more than happy to help stick it to Hydra.”

Steve, meanwhile, was scowling down at the printout Bucky had passed him. “Wait - Incidents beginning July 2012?” Steve read, face ashen, “That’s shortly after they found me.” Steve looked to Bucky, “You knew. Somehow, you knew.”  
  
Bucky frowned deeper, shrugging, “The bond.” He shook his head, “Must have been some kind of, I don’t know, interference.” He took the page back from Steve, slipping it back into the folder with a huff.

“Good,” Steve maintained, despite the scowl that settled on Bucky’s face. “It let you fight them; gave them some more hell.”

“I didn’t do anything. It was just the damn spells on me,” he persisted.

Steve hummed dubiously, pride blatant in his expression.

The praise sat uncomfortably heavy on his shoulders. Bucky hadn’t done anything – not that he could remember – it was just words on paper.

Sam cleared his throat into his fist.

Steve glanced around the table, scrubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Were you able to get any other information out of the other prisoners?” Steve asked.

“I think your two technician friends were screaming ‘deal’ the moment that they had handcuffs on,” Natasha replied. “Having one of them named in that document helped. Getting them to talk wasn’t a problem; it’s going to be harder to keep them quiet about The Winter Soldier being at the scene.”  
  
Bucky’s head jerked up, eyes wide.  
  
Natasha made a dismissive gesture, “Don’t worry – I put the fear of God in them – or you, more precisely. But whenever you need someone to testify, Barnes, I think they’ll sing like birds.”

Bucky chewed his lip, turning the papers over in his hands. “I need to chase this first.”

Natasha nodded, “I figured as much. SHIELD isn’t what we thought it was, and they’re not exactly in any kind of position to offer you amnesty like they did me, considering that they’re now associated with a terrorist organization. I’m already being called in to testify in front of Congress, and they’re probably going to be knocking on your door soon, Steve,” Natasha cautioned. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can, but the public doesn’t know who they can trust and they’re looking for people to blame.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Steve said seriously.

“When you’re ready to go,” Natasha took Steve’s phone off of the table and typed a number into it, “call Clint. He can get you there.”

“What about you?” Steve asked, glancing at the number, “You interested in going with? I’m sure you have your own scores to settle with Hydra.”

Natasha smiled, humming a single-note chuckle, “I _am_ busy, Rogers: covers to establish, investigations to conduct. Trust me; I’ve got a lot of your fires to put out right here making sure that the letter agencies don’t find Barnes till he’s ready to be found.” She finished off her bottle of beer, “Besides, kicking down doors and killing Nazis? That’s your territory. Call me if circumstances change.” She stood up, patting Sam on the shoulder. “Have fun, boys.”

She paused, glancing between Bucky and Steve, “And good for you two!” She grinned like the cat that ate the canary, “No wonder I never could get you to bite on any of those dates.”

“What?!” Steve quickly checked the front of his pants for a fourth time, “How did you know!?”

“Well, _now_ she does.” Bucky rolled his eyes.

Natasha winked and turned, strolling out the door with a wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again SO MUCH for all of the amazing comments, support, and kind words on the last chapter after I spoke about my recent cancer diagnosis. 
> 
> I wanted to give ya'll an update: I had my surgery last Wednesday: a 9 hour procedure that involved a neck dissection, thryoidectomy and removal of many of the lymph nodes of my throat and left side of my neck. I'm now home from the hospital and slowly improving. Later this week, I'll get the drains taken out of my neck/chest and find out the results of the pathology - next week I'll start working with an endocrinologist to plan the strategy moving forward. m.m
> 
> I'm still really taking it slowly - BUT we had finished 3 chapters before the surgery, and have been feeling good enough to work through some edits that Kamiki and my awesome beta Kaolin helped out with <3 . So we're excited to post an update, and really look forward to getting to new writing hopefully soon :) .
> 
> ALSO - I want to share a piece of adorable gift art I received from [ theoriginalstarbucks ](https://theoriginalstarbucks.tumblr.com/) \- inspired by the amazing "cover piece" that superhumandisasters did that's posted on the series page :) - but kitty!demon!Bucky! :D
> 
> View/Reblog it on tumblr: [ here](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/177423550453/a-gift-for-araniaart-inspired-by-the-fanfic)~!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter includes mentions of past rape and homosexual slurs. 
> 
> [Also, this chapter hasn't been fully beta'd yet - I do plan on editing it again after I've received them, but ya'll have been patient enough for this chapter and I was excited to post it!]

The Soldier had never been permitted to participate with the planning process of his missions. He was prepped on the target, kitted with the appropriate weapons, taken to the location, and set loose. Sergeant Barnes, on the other hand, had been vital in the prep of an op, often standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Falsworth and Captain Rogers late into the night. So as Bucky pored over the resources spread out over the coffee table with Steve by his side, Sergeant Barnes reemerged gradually, with rusty familiarity.

He’d nearly forgotten the intricacies of prepping an operation. Plus, this time, they didn’t have the backing of the SSR, the US Army, and Howard Stark himself. The meager resources they had were a handful of weapons from The Winter Soldier’s personal arsenal, the Hydra cache he’d raided, the intelligence from Natasha, and the dubious aid of Bucky’s swiss-cheese memory. Aerial photos suggested that the base hadn’t been in use for some time, but neither were prepared to take that as hard fact. They needed to prepare for the mission as if it were a full-scale raid of an active Hydra cell.

The target was sub-optimal: a remote location with a whole lot more unknowns than Bucky would have liked. To make matters more aggravating, Bucky quickly found out that Steve’s risk-aphilia hadn’t abated as they argued over the best infiltration tactics. On the bright side, they’d found some more _constructive_ ways to work out pent up frustrations than the shouting matches they’d employed during the war. More than one heated argument over who was going to take point turned into one of them being hauled into the bedroom.

Bucky still insisted on maintaining his human mask during sex, unable to feel lovable _like that,_ despite Steve’s assurances to the contrary. However, he did begin to relax his iron grip on his guise when just the two of them were alone in the apartment. Even if the emotiveness of his tail often betrayed when his irritation was ticking up, or the shuffling of the plates on his arm was a tell of growing discomfort. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad to cue Steve in on when he wasn’t feeling as good about himself. After all, it often came paired with a suggestion for a warm bath or good food.

Days turned into weeks. Bucky searched his scattered, torn memories for anything resembling a layout of the base, but in the end, he couldn’t be certain of how reliable the shaky maps he sketched out were, or if he was splicing it with aspects of the first facility he’d been kept in. It didn’t help that Lukin had been present at both facilities, comingling locations in his mind that Bucky couldn’t say for certain where or when they occurred. It didn’t matter to Steve: he saw any attempts as vital progress, despite how dubious Bucky was about whether these jumbled layouts would cause them more problems than they’d solve.

Sam swung by periodically. Sometimes he participated with the mission planning, offering some unique perspectives that his Special Forces paratrooper background afforded. Other times he contributed to their cache of gear. Once, along with no less than three bags of aromatic Chinese food and some damn fine beer, he brought along a copy of the film _Up_ he’d talked about.

Bucky found himself losing his bet ten minutes into the goddamned movie.

Sam said it was proof he still had a soul.

Bucky insisted it was proof that Sam was a rotten bastard who got his kicks making grown men cry.

Sam still hadn’t let Bucky live it down even as they were driving out of the city to rendezvous with Steve’s contact, Clint, to ferry them to their destination. He insisted on taking shotgun, calling it part of his winnings, wedging Bucky into the cramped backseat of the two-door coupe that Steve had borrowed. Steve had called it “discrete”. Bucky called it too-goddamned-small for three grownass men and a mission’s worth of gear. Bucky – politely – asked if Sam would move his seat up: he _knew_ it was ratcheted as far back as it would go, but Sam swore up and down that he couldn’t move it forward any more. Bucky retaliated by pressing his knees into the back of Sam’s seat. Sam took control of the radio and cranked up the most godawful noise that had no business being called music. Steve – the traitor – permitted it.

In fact, Steve seemed to be getting a kick out of it all. He jokingly threatened to turn the car around twice as Sam and Bucky sniped at each other throughout the two hour drive (and Bucky wasn’t proud of the escalation that somehow led to him sticking his tongue in Sam’s ear), but it nearly succeeded in getting his mind off of the mission at hand.

By the time they arrived at the edge of a field in the middle of nowhere, Bucky eagerly scrambled out of the car to briefly unguise and literally stretch his wings. At the edge of dense woodlands twenty minutes off of the highway, it was beautiful. Birdsong replaced the terrible music from the drive, and a faint breeze stirred the sun-warmed grasses. It was a crying shame to be leaving the beautiful late spring weather of New York to go to the frozen hellscape of Siberia, so remote as to be untouched by the very concept of Summer. Even when the snows weren’t falling, the ground remained hard, packed permafrost untouched for generations: the birthplace of the Winter Soldier.

Perhaps it was fitting, then, that Bucky strapped back into his black tacsuit: a shadow to Steve’s bold red, white, and blues. Steve had insisted they suit up for battle while they waited for Clint, and even Sam kitted out in his field uniform and an armored vest. Despite the fact he was still down his wingpack, more tech had gone into Sam’s flightsuit than just the wings: a pair of red-tinted goggles perched on his head, and heavy duty shoulder and knee pads struck an imposing silhouette. Bucky was thankful that Sam had their backs.

After kitting up, Bucky perched on the roof of Steve’s car to wait for their ride, wondering what kind of aircraft to expect. It would have to be something capable of making the trip to Siberia: a Bombardier Global Express maybe, or possibly a G4 if they stopped for fuel somewhere in Western Europe? Bucky nearly swallowed his tongue when a damn _quinjet_ silently decloaked above them landing vertically only a few dozen meters away from their vehicle. For a moment, panic kicked in, and he wondered if some surviving SHIELD faction had managed to track them down. He sprung to his feet, poised to fight – or fly – if he had to. But no troops came pouring out, and after the engine powered down, a blond man with a shaggy-cropped hair and a healing shiner hopped out of the pilot’s cabin. Bucky recognized him immediately from the footage from the Battle of New York and breathed a sigh of relief.

Bucky hung back as Steve strode forward to clasp hands. “Thanks for coming out, Hawkeye,” Steve greeted, in full Captain-mode. Something always came over the guy when he put on the Captain America getup.

“Nat said you guys could use my help,” Clint said with a disarming shrug. “And anything Cap needs help with, well, it’s something worth doing.”

Steve shook his head with a chuckle, “Nat said you could provide transport; she didn’t say you had a _quinjet_ , Clint.”

Clint rubbed the back of his head with a sheepish grin, “Well, you know, a lot went missing after the Triskelion event in DC.”

“You _stole_ a quinjet?” Steve boggled.

“I did _not_ steal it!” Clint protested with a squawk, “I was piloting it on a mission for SHIELD, and then suddenly, there was no SHIELD to report back to. So I’m holding onto it for safekeeping.”

Steve shook his head, mirth playing at the edge of his lips, “And you just so happened to have a place you could hide – sorry – _hanger_ a quinjet?”  
  
“It just so happens that I did,” Clint puffed up, slipping his hands into his pockets before turning his attention to Sam.

“Clint, this is Sam Wilson-“ Steve gestured as Sam strode forward to shake hands.  
  
“Hey, Falcon, right?” Clint greeted, “Nat told me about your service in Bakhmala... and D.C. for that matter! It’s an honor to work with you!”

“No, seriously, the honor’s all mine, Hawkeye.” Sam grinned back, giving Clint’s hand a firm grasp before releasing it.

“Birds of a feather, right?” Clint chuckled.

“Can’t believe this means I’ve now officially met half of the damned _Avengers.”_ Sam said with only barely contained cool. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Done a lot more than met,” Steve clasped Sam’s shoulder, giving it a shake, “You’ve been in the thick of it with us, and you're one of the finest soldiers I’ve had the honor of serving with.”

For once, Sam’s words failed him.

Bucky hadn’t budged from the roof of the Volkswagen when Clint pointed his raised brows in his direction. “So _this_ is the Winter Soldier?” Clint breathed in uncomfortably reverent tones.

“In the flesh?” Bucky winced, hopping down and sidling up to Steve’s side.

“You know, I always thought that if I ever crossed paths with you, that it would mean that I seriously fucked up.” Clint’s hand wrapped around Bucky’s, “Glad to be wrong about that one.”

“Well, the day’s still young,” Bucky summoned a joke with an effort of will.

“Ha!” Clint barked. “Okay, fair point.” The handshake turned into a clap on his shoulder and Clint turned back towards the jet. “Okay you three, it’s a long trip. Load up and we’ll be lifting off in ten! There’s coffee in a carafe in the cockpit. Hands off, it’s mine.”

They transferred and secured their equipment to the jet, but Clint caught up to Bucky as he was unfolding the jump seat next to Steve. “Hey Soldier, you know how to pilot one of these, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered warily.

Clint nodded decisively, “Why don’t you join me as co-pilot for a bit?”

Bucky glanced to Steve, who gave him an encouraging nod and a smile like he was excited that his two friends were going to get the chance to get to know each other. Naïve punk.

“Yeah, sure,” he sighed. Here it came: the inevitable shovel talk from someone who had been elbows-deep in the intelligence agencies for at least a decade about how he couldn’t trust him, how he was going to be keeping his eyes on him. Or, maybe it was even more personal than that: perhaps he’d killed some of his co-workers…or friends. At least Clint was doing him the favor of getting it out of the way sooner rather than later. He followed Clint up to the cockpit and strapped in to the right-hand seat. Without meeting Clint’s eyes, he started double-checking the instruments and coordinates in preparation for takeoff.

He could feel Clint’s eyes on his demon arm as he took the seat to his left, which only made the plates bristle at the scrutiny.

“You know, most other agents didn’t believe you even really existed.” Clint said without preamble, flipping a few switches on the instrument panel. “But! Some agents who had spotted you and lived to tell the tale – or just gotten a glimpse at some rare footage – had a pool going about what the deal was with your arm. Some thought it was some kind of armor.”

 _That_ wasn’t what he had expected to hear. Bucky turned a questioning look at Clint, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Me, I had my money on some kind of advanced cyberarm – and in my defense it really does read like one on surveillance tapes or from a distance-” Clint slid a pair of purple sunglasses onto his nose with a wink, “-especially if your eyesight’s not as good as mine - but man, in person you can really tell it’s organic.” Clint continued, starting the engine. “Kinda creepy, but kinda wicked, too.”

“Uh, thanks?” Bucky said awkwardly. Was this his idea of small talk?

“Nat said that Hydra did some freaky experiments on you. Gene splicing or something?”

“Or something,” Bucky agreed hesitantly.

“Damn, guess that means that Simpson won the pool. Course, I haven’t heard from him since SHIELD imploded.”  
  
Bucky froze. And here it came: was Simpson dead? Did Clint blame him? Maybe he had he even killed Simpson on Insight day personally. The words hung unanswered for uncomfortably long, before Bucky wet his lips, “I’m sorry.”

That still didn’t goad a response out of Hawkeye, leaving Bucky’s thoughts to turn inward and begin to ferment with guilt.

They were in the air by the time Clint found the words he was looking for. “You know, I spent some time as a zombie.”  
  
Bucky glanced back over, confused. “What?”

A haunted expression Bucky hadn’t seen anywhere outside of a mirror settled behind Clint’s eyes. “Nothing compared to you, but I did bad things. And it _was_ me, you know? Except it wasn’t.”

“Yeah?” Bucky murmured, blindsided, and turned away to study the altimeter. Surely, Clint couldn’t mean what he thought he meant… right?

“When Loki came to Earth, he had this scepter. One touch – _one touch_ and I was gone.” Out of the corner of his eye, Clint winced and shook his head. “Or, at least, I’d like to say I was gone, but that wasn’t quite it. It’s like Loki’s motivations became _my_ motivations. He turned my memories and my talents against me. I gave up secrets, I fought for him, I _killed_ for him.”

“I didn’t know anyone else had ever been through something like that,” Bucky swallowed thickly. “It was a nightmare. I still close my eyes and see the things they made me do, the people they made me hurt.”

“Somehow, I managed not to kill Fury when I took a shot at him. Loki asked if I admired him. I told him I wasn’t at my best with a gun.” Bucky snuck a glance over to see Clint stony-faced, eyes on the grey expanse of clouds beneath them. “I think I believed that at the time, but when I think back on it, I don’t see how I could have missed unless a part of me was able to fight it. But that almost makes it worse. If I could have missed that shot, why not the others?”

Bucky threaded his fingers, the claws of his left hand pressing divots into his skin. “When they gave me orders, I had no choice but to obey them. I tried to find ways to get around them at first: find loopholes, work in my own actions between the lines. But eventually, they found a work-around,” Bucky frowned.

“Nat showed me the schematics of that torture device they called a chair. Sounds like it’s a miracle you can still remember your own name.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t for the better part of a century,” Bucky murmured.

“How’d you break out of it?” Clint asked.

“Steve,” Bucky answered, unable to keep the small smile off of his lips. “Well, him and someone finally killed the SOB that was puppeting me. You?”  
  
“Cognitive recalibration.” At Bucky’s blank look, Clint laughed, “Well, that’s what Nat called it. She hit me really hard upside the head.”  
  
That surprised a laugh out of Bucky as well. “Surprised she needed an excuse to knock some sense into you.”

A flicker of approval gleamed in Clint’s eyes. “If you’re half as good of a shot as they say you are, we’ll have to hit a firing range sometime and put some money down.”

“You’re on,” the tension in Bucky’s shoulders began to ease as he read between the lines: Clint trusted him alone with a firearm. “But because I like you, I’ll give you the courtesy of a warning: a lot of guys have lost money on bets like those,” Bucky flashed Clint a challenging grin.

Barton laughed throatily, “Oh, you think you’re going to _win_?”

*

The high-pitched whine of the quinjet engines had been a constant companion for hours, long enough that when they finally cycled down and the cargo door opened onto the frozen Siberian hellscape, the silence was nearly as jarring as the sudden drop in temperature. Disturbed snow swirled in eddies around the gangway, and Bucky crossed the threshold like stepping through a curtain of memory.

Outside, the acoustics changed: white-noise silence as oppressive as the unforgiving cold. The straps biding snugly across his chest and the heft of a rifle in his hands stole him back in time. The particular crunch of his heavy combat boots through the packed, frozen earth beneath the thin layer of powdered snow, the scent of frozen rocks and ancient permafrost that no human language had the vocabulary to describe...

_Silence muzzled the Winter Soldier as he strode out of the jet without a glance back at the Hydra soldiers trailing after him. His master waited for him in the compound; he could feel his call in his chest, a tugging heartbeat._

_His fingers danced over the buttons of the entry panel by muscle memory, like playing a familiar tune across the keys of a piano._

_The foot-thick metal doors swung open silently, and he was marched through the dim entrance room to the elevator, where it carried him deep into the bowels of the facility. His body ached for feeding, for rest – but it would not come until he had faced his master –_ Sir _– and spoke the words he wanted to hear._

_The elevator hit the bottom, The Asset’s stomach catching up a moment later. The gates slid open, and Karpov stood before him, hands clasped behind his back. A warm squirming in his gut and pleasant tingle in his shoulder signaled the appellation of his orders, and the Asset shivered in relief. “Sir,” his voice was breathy, muffled behind the face mask, as he dropped to his knees in supplication, as was standing orders – no – protocol._

_< “Mission report,”> Karpov barked, hard eyes set in a deceptively unassuming face. _

_He set the briefcase down before him, head bowed. As ordered, he had not relinquished control of the package since he acquired it, not even to the agents that had accompanied him during transit. <“Mission objectives accomplished. Target Howard Stark and witness eliminated, deaths made to appear accidental.” He hoped that Karpov didn’t notice his throat tightening as he spoke the name. “Surveillance tapes have been recovered and replaced with the doctored versions to corroborate the accident narrative, and the package has been acquired.”>_

_Karpov’s eyes lingered, scrutinizing. He knew Colonel Karpov’s face better than he knew his own, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth made the breath stall in his lungs. Whatever he saw in the Asset’s expression, he didn’t care for it. Any sign of defiance would mean pain. He froze, bracing himself._

_It didn’t come. Instead, Karpov picked up the briefcase, flicking open the locks to gaze down at five bags of blue liquid. The disapproval that had flickered across his face evaporated into a shrewd look of hunger. <”Well done, Soldier.”> _

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and Bucky jerked out of the memory like he’d pulled a ripcord.

“Hey, pal, I’m right here with you, okay?” Steve’s baby blues found his eyes and Bucky felt something in his chest thaw.

“Thanks,” he managed to croak, shaking his head and looking out towards the heavy steel doors set beneath the protective, obscuring outcropping with fresh eyes. They had landed a good third of a klick away, and Bucky wasn’t looking forward to the icy hike. “Still hate the fucking cold,” he groused, wishing that his uniform was better insulated. Complaining was certainly never something Hydra had permitted, and allowing himself that transgression helped keep his head in the present.

“That’s ironic coming from someone called the _Winter_ Soldier,” Clint said, catching up. “But hey, there’s a reason I set us down as far back as we did,” He gestured to the blank canvas of snow that led past the disturbed ring around the jet. “We kicked up a lot of snow when we landed, but look: no footprints but the ones we’re making. Course, who knows how recently it fell.”

Bucky hummed, considering, “It’s packed pretty dense. June in Siberia doesn’t usually bring a lot of fresh snowfall, even if the existing snows don’t melt up here. This isn’t fresh.”  
  
Sam turned a dial on the side of his red goggles. “No other vehicles in sight. No tire treads, even under the top layer. Facility like this doesn’t exactly have loading bays. Those silos are only going to open from the inside, and looking at the buildup on those, they haven’t been opened since before last snowfall.”

Steve nodded decisively. “Plan A, then. We go in the front door, move as a unit.”

The closed the distance to the entrance to the buried facility: the deceptively small rocky outcropping hiding the pair of thick double doors. Once there, Bucky’s hand instinctively reached for the access panel, only stalling when he realized that thick ice had sealed over the box containing the keypad.

“No one’s opened this thing in a while,” Hawkeye mused as Bucky began to chip away at the glaze with his left hand. The claws made short work of the ice, and Bucky pried open the panel to stare at the number pad within.

“Can you get us in, Buck, or do we need to force the door?”

“The door’s a foot thick.” _It was designed to hold me in if I ever tried to run._ He shook his head. “I think it would take even our group a while to get through, assuming we didn’t activate some kind of security lockdown. I think…” He stared at the buttons, trying to remember the sequence, but the numerals swirled in his mind the harder he tried to think about it.

He grit his teeth. This had been easier before the memories started to come back. Before he had to remember _things_ along with objective data.

_I’m going about this the wrong way. Don’t think. Just do._

Blowing out a breath, he closed his eyes, and let his muscle memory take over. His fingers fell into the pattern. A buzzing beep of acceptance rattled his ears and he opened his eyes to see a green light over the door.

“Good work,” Steve’s hand squeezed his trapezius through his thick leather jacket. “Let’s move.”

Even unlocked, Steve had to put his back into opening the heavy, ice-sheathed doors. Once he had managed to crack the doors open, frigid air rushed into the compound, flushing out a musty scent. Bucky wrinkled his nose. Beneath the still air, the heavy metallic odor of steel, machine oil, concrete and rust pressed in on him as he stepped into the darkened facility. Dim lights flickered to life.

The entry room was straight out of Bucky’s nightmares: small, no larger than twenty by twenty, a ceiling barely taller than they were, with the addition of long rust stains running down the walls like blood. The only feature of note was the door to the freight elevator at the far side. So far, the facility was precisely as Bucky had mapped it out, but this was less than the tip of the iceberg: the complex ran through the rocks like a cave system, embedded in and protected by the mountain itself.

Clint blew out a low whistle, “Place looks abandoned,” he mused, following Bucky inside and dragging a finger through cobwebs that framed the corners.

“Let’s not make any assumptions,” Steve cautioned.

“No stairs?” Sam asked, worried.

Bucky shook his head, “Karpov was all about control. That included entry to his facility.”

“That breaks _all_ kinds of fire codes,” Clint said with a tsk of his tongue.

“We can use that to our advantage,” Steve announced. “We work our way down floor by floor. There was nothing in sight aboveground, so we’ll keep the cleared areas to our backs. If the elevator moves without one of us, we’ll know about it.”

“We all go down together?” Sam asked, eyes trailing over the empty room like the walls might cave in at any moment.

Steve hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Even if the elevator itself is sabotaged, we’ll stand a better chance together. If something is waiting for us in the compound, we need to face it united.”

Clint moved forward and hit the button to summon the elevator. It rattled open immediately, already at the top. “Whoever used this last used it to leave,” he murmured. “Good sign.” He pressed a button on his gauntlet, and the base of his quiver cycled a quarter-turn. He drew out an arrow, notching it into his bow. “Just in case,” he smiled.

Bucky cocked his head, “What? You’ll shoot the elevator if it drops?”

“No, man, it’s a grappling arrow!” Clint whined, “Knock out the roof and this baby’ll save our lives.”

“Grappling _arrow_.” Bucky stated, wetting his chapped lips with a shake of his head. “Okay. Sure. Why not.”

They collectively held their breath as the elevator descended smoothly into the pits of the facility, watching the floor swim upwards through the small window in the door. The window afforded them a glimpse of a long hallway lined with industrial lights before they stopped with a heavy shudder at the first basement level. The doors rolled open, and Bucky’s memories spilled out.

The hallway beyond were Bucky’s nightmares run through a filter of age and neglect: industrial concrete painted with chipping grey-green paint; exposed steel piping and trellises of rusted metal grates. Even the air tasted stale: cold and choked with mildew.

Bucky’s steps faltered as he trailed behind Steve, eyes scouring the industrial carcass for any signs of life. He had to blink away the ghosts of Hydra soldiers flanking him, escorting him to mission prep.

They moved as a unit through the grid of hallways and empty rooms. Hollowed out machinery sat like monoliths in forgotten rooms. Blocky surveillance cameras hung in the corners like vultures and computer towers, stray keyboards, and orphaned, boxy monitors crowded metal office desks. Elsewhere, desks lay on their sides, broken machinery and computers left strewn where they had fallen.

“This tech is old,” Clint murmured, his voice muffled by the thrumming pulse in Bucky’s ears. “The newest equipment I’ve seen is from the nineties _at best_ , but some of this looks like it’s from the seventies.” He patted the side of a behemoth of a computer that nearly filled one of the rooms, its mechanical innards half strewn across the cement around their feet. Piles of half-desiccated ticker-tape with holes punched in patterns like the windows in a skyscraper intertwined with broken vacuum tubes and stripped wires.

_A thrumming drone beneath a quick pattern of a high pitched whirring dot matrix printer and fingers clacking on clunky keyboards: this was the language of the technicians. Meaning and power interlaced the indecipherable noise not unlike the ritual incantations that had trapped him in this body and compelled his loyalty. This esoteric communication was so above his head, he may as well have been a dog beneath the table as the humans spoke above him._

Bucky cleared his head with a shake as they pressed on, wishing he could clear the cobwebs from his mind as easily as the physical ones that draped the hallways.

Room by room, floor by floor, they continued their descent. They encountered racks of disused medical equipment, exposed pipework and ducts, fuse boxes bolted utilitarian into the concrete walls. Rooms filled with simple bunkbed cots, a stale cafeteria, and lavatories stood as evidence to the personnel force that once served and lived here. Other rooms looked like doctors’ examination rooms, but with doors that bolted closed. One floor boasted a massive open layout filled with metal racks: a warehouse for small arms and paperwork alike.

Sam blew out a breath, scanning boxes labeled in Cyrillic, “Looks like an evidence locker in here. This is gonna be a treasure trove, man,” he glanced back at Steve. “And a lot of work.”

Steve nodded. “Let’s finish clearing the compound first, but we’ll come back for this – maybe have Nat send a secondary team after we make sure the book isn’t here somewhere first.”

“I doubt they’d leave something like that forgotten in a box somewhere,” Bucky muttered pessimistically.

Clint rolled his shoulders, “You’d be surprised what kind of things slip through the cracks sometimes.”

Bucky frowned dubiously, but pressed on. Every time they turned a new corner or the elevator brought them to a deeper level, Bucky held his breath, waiting for his fears to manifest. And yet, the elevator never moved when they did not operate it, no squad of Hydra solders waited to ambush them.

When the elevator doors rattled open to the fourth subbasement, Bucky forced himself to speak over his hammering heart, “If I remember correctly, this is the floor they held me.” Bucky’s voice was small, smothered by the weight of the mountain pressing down on them.

At first, the lowest floor looked no different than all of the previous levels. The same shade of sickly green that tinted Bucky’s nightmares covered the walls to just above their heads. However, bullet holes and gashes scored the concrete. Nearly every door had smashed windows, broken-off knobs, or both. A subtle scent hung in the corridors like eggs gone bad beneath the odors of rust and mildew.

In Bucky’s mind’s eye, warning lights splashed the halls with flashing red and a clanging rang in his ears that set his spines on edge. A new memory ignited in the recesses of his mind, consuming him in a sudden inferno.

_< “Soldat – Get me out of here!”> He’d never heard that kind of fear in his Karpov’s voice before. He raised his gun, but aimed it over his shoulder – at the red-headed woman who turned a manic smile on their Colonel. The woman who had just gone toe-to-toe with him, but had ignored barked orders to stand down, who had thrown the technician who checked her pulse after the fight into the bars of the cage that had served as a sparring ring._

_Mechanically, the Asset turned to ford the oncoming wave of soldiers decked out in full riot gear, ignoring the gunshots and screams echoing behind him as he escorted Sir to the elevator – to safety._

“Bucky – _Bucky_!”

Bucky gasped, spinning on “– _Steve!”_ His rifle was raised, pointed straight at him. A tremble took over his arms as he slowly lowered the muzzle, only now aware of the clammy sweat clinging to him and his heart beating so forcefully he could feel it knocking against his ribs.

“Are you okay, man?” Sam’s concerned voice came from behind him.

“Y-yeah,” Bucky lied, swallowing thickly and rubbing between his eyes, trying to force the puzzle pieces together. “After Howard, I had brought back a case with some,” the image swam hazy in his mind, like grasping for a mirage, “there were bags of blue liquid in the case – 4? 5? I didn’t… I don’t remember. It wasn’t my business, I wasn’t paying attention.” Realization hit him like a jolt from a cattle prod, “Jesus I think it was samples of the serum.” The color drained from Steve’s face, and Clint straightened. Sam turned to stare. Bucky leaned against the cold wall, looking up at the caged light. Was there still a bit of dried blood splattered against the bulb, or was he just imagining it? “Stark – Howard must have managed to replicate it. That must be why they had me…” Bucky’s voice choked off.

“It’s okay,” Steve tried to keep his voice measured and encouraging, but Bucky could hear the timbre of worry beneath it. “You’re doing good, Buck.” Steve was a shitty liar.

Bucky tried to breathe through it, squeezing his eyes shut so the spinning room didn’t distract him. “There was a woman… part of Hydra’s most elite death squad. Karpov… he was testing it out on her. He was planning on more if it went well – but the test went to shit.” He licked his lips. “She turned on them. She was strong. So strong… But after I got Mas- _Colonel_ Karpov to safety, I went back in with the rest of her squad and wrangled her into a cryo tank.”

 _She hit like a truck, kicking and throwing elbows like she was an automatic weapon. Her eyes, though, were the scariest thing about her: half-crazed and so_ angry _. When she saw the tank behind her, she somehow fought even harder, driving_ _her knees_ _into his kidneys, wriggling and screaming. She managed to slip an arm free and grabbed one of his horns – and with a sickening CRACK that he could feel down to his bowels and a flare of red pain and a hot splash across his face -_

“You think she might still be here?” Clint asked, glancing around.

“No idea,” Bucky said, hating the way his voice refused to keep steady and the taste of vomit that chased his words. “I don’t know what happened to her. I think this was only a little bit before I was sent off to Pierce…” Memories pressed in on him like the mountain above.

“Do you want to go back to the surface?” Sam asked gently. “Couldn’t hurt to have someone up there watching our backs while we’re down here.”  
  
Bucky shook his head resolutely. “No. I need to do this. I need to see this for myself.”  
  
Steve frowned, gauging him for a moment before nodding crisply, “Let’s push on.”

Beyond a narrow corridor lined with heavy doors, each one revealing an empty half-sized cell, lay the door to the first of the missile silos. But instead of rockets waiting dormant, eerie yellow light filled four empty chambers ringing the room. The twisted metal monstrosity of a _chair_ waited for him, bolted into the floor in the center of the room.

Bucky’s steps faltered as Sam and Clint maneuvered around him like a river diverting around a bolder, weapons raised as they investigated. Steve interposed himself between the chair and Bucky, shield raised as if he could protect Bucky from his past.

“There are spots and hook-ups for two more of these tanks,” Sam called out, “But there’s a layer of dust over their footprints just like everything else.”

Clint nodded stiffly, eyes raking up the catwalks that circled up and up and up – to the massive round lid of the silo at ground level.

“We’ve cleared the room, we can come back later to flag pieces to recover, but let’s move forward.” Steve announced.

They pressed on, but Bucky found his footsteps growing slower. To their credit, Sam, Clint and Steve didn’t break the formation nor say anything about the slower pace as they moved onward, though Steve kept casting glances back at him. The chair was still back there, waiting – he _swore_ he could hear its distinctive whine calling his name, boring into his head –

Bucky stopped dead. In the narrowest place of the corridor, metal shelves lined the walls with a horror show of artifacts.

“What the fuck-” Sam breathed before catching himself.

Jars. Dozens of jars. Even through the sealed lids formaldehyde choked Bucky’s nose. In one, a horn – snapped off at the base, ragged. In another the tip of a tail – _his tail_ –

 _He was strapped to a gurney, the buzz of a circular saw spinning, a masked doctor pressing the spinning blade against_ his tail _before a scream tore loose from his throat like a thing alive! The pain! The pain the painthepain-_

Steve was shaking him by the shoulders. “Bucky! Bucky, snap out of it!”

He blinked, falling back a pace. “Testing…” Bucky choked, words spilling reflexively from his mouth, “They were testing my healing.”

Steve straightened, barely-restrained rage evident in his deliberate breaths and clenched jaw.

Clint thumbed through a box of files on one of the shelves, deliberately _not_ looking back at Bucky. “Medical records-“ He scoffed, “If you can call it that. There are records of experimentations here, lists of drugs, concentrations, timetables. Signatures from… Vasily Karpov, Alexander Lukin –” Clint looked up at Steve, “My Russian’s not perfect, but this looks useful for that case you’re building.”

“And I may not know Cyrillic, but I know what mission reports look like: this box is full of ‘em.” Sam put the lid back on the box he’d been investigating, his face ashen when he turned back to Bucky. “Clint and I can start loading up the jet,” he offered, “We could be back down in ten.”

“I’m fine!” Bucky said, or at least tried to say. Instead, what came out sounded more like a growl.

“Yeah, I think we got this,” Steve said with a glance back at Bucky. He was covering for him – for his damn show of weakness. Bucky bristled, but Clint and Sam were already packing the freak show jars away into the boxes.

“If you spot anything, radio,” Clint said seriously.

“Of course,” Steve nodded. The next time Bucky opened his eyes, Clint and Sam were heading off, pushing a cart loaded with boxes.

“We’re in the middle of a goddamn mission, Steve – you didn’t need to send them away!” Bucky snapped the moment he heard the elevator rumbling in the distance. “That was reckless, and –”

Steve spun, pointing a finger in Bucky’s face. “And you’re not _fine,_ ” he countered. “I made the call. We’ve been at this for hours, all signs indicate this compound has been abandoned for years, and this place has been getting to you-” Steve exhaled, redirecting his accusatory finger to smooth back his hair, “which is _understandable,_ Buck. We could all use a bit of a breather.”

Bucky shook his head, but the walls were _really_ narrow here, the chair was right back there, and he was _here_ , he was _here he was here and_

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice centered him again, and Bucky looked up into his baby blues. “You’ve been pushing yourself hard. I made the call.”

Bucky curled his lip, “Yes, Sir, Captain America Sir.”

Steve leveled a tired glare back at him, “You give _me_ shit for being stubborn and then you pull this?”

“I _am_ fine. I’ve pushed through a hell of a lot worse than this,” Bucky countered.

“You’re not with Hydra any more – that’s the entire point. You don’t _have_ to push yourself.”

Bucky refused to acknowledge that this banter was starting to help pull his head out of the Cold War - right up until a deep, metallic THUNK resonated through the compound like a low-frequency gong. The lights flickered for a few chilling seconds before they stabilized.

Steve immediately switched on the radio, “Hawkeye, Falcon – come in. We heard something – please report. Over.”

Static.

Bucky swallowed, glancing between the sound of the thunk – it sounded like it had come from the elevator shaft, and a new, quieter static from further into the compound. An area they had yet to clear.

Fuck.

“Hawkeye – Falcon – I repeat, come in.”

More static. Bucky raised his rifle, putting his back to Steve’s.

“Hawkeye reporting – sorry Cap – we – _crackle_ \- it to the surface and – _crackle-_ the jet when we heard it, too,” static flickered between his words, and Bucky had to strain to make out the rest. They were so far underground with all of the shielding designed to make this compound safe from missile attacks would have likely blocked signals from devices from the era entirely. “Something – _crackle_ – elevator. I think – _crackle_ – cut.”

Steve swore under his breath before responding, “Keep your eyes open – see if you can’t get it working again, we’ll look for a way to open the silos from down here. Cap out.”

Steve glanced back at Bucky, “From your diagrams, it looked like there was a control room this way,” he nodded down the hallway.

“Y-yeah, I think so,” Bucky tried to focus, his words gravely. “Do you hear that, though? The static?”

Steve paused, listening before frowning, “This place may have been abandoned for a while – if so, who knows how much power was left in the generators. This place might be falling apart, and using the elevators and flipping on lights might have overloaded the system. Maybe the power surge knocked something loose, _but_ I’m not willing to chance it. We stick together, check it out.”

The hissing crackle grew louder as they crept deeper, the lights dimmer than they’d been before the surge. And then, through the white noise, Bucky began to make out low voices in Russian. Lukin’s voice.

This was bad – this was a bad idea – and yet Bucky kept putting one foot in front of the other, following Steve down the hallway, a creeping sense of dread building with each step. Fear had paralyzed his throat by the time he recognized the words.

“ _And when the subject is in the throes of heat, he produces pheromones that have a drastic effect on men near him.”_

No…

They rounded the corner, the door to the control room was wide open, and all seven of the screens above the desk played out the same scene:

_A circle of Hydra soldiers dressed in Soviet garb surrounded him – naked, laying on his back – a bruised eye and rib, but a prominent erection visible even through the grainy black and white footage. His tail lashed between his legs, and the twisted demonic arm grew from his shoulder but the rest of him was still human._

Bucky’s stomach dropped to his knees as Steve continued to walk forward, eyes fixed on the screens.

“Steve… no,” Bucky tried to croak, but his voice caught in his throat. This had to be a nightmare.

It had to be.

“ _Perhaps these fine men will assist you with what you need, if you ask them nicely, Sergeant.”_ Lukin’s voice crackled from the speakers.

And frozen, transfixed, Bucky watched himself, eyes black, surge to his knees to tear open the pants of the nearest Hydra soldier in a need so desperate he didn’t even have time for buttons. No one forced his hand as he swallowed down the man’s – _Petrov’s_ – his mind eagerly supplied – cock.

 _Steve, don’t look, please don’t look._ Bucky mutely pleaded, but Steve was rigid as a board and as white as a ghost as the video continued to play out.

Bucky arched his back, naked and mewling in blain-blistering need as the soldiers laughed, hurling demeaning slurs at him. Truths: a cockslut, a cunt…

“ _Do you wish for him to fuck you, Sergeant Barnes?”_ Lukin’s voice played over the speakers, and mortified, Bucky watched himself nod eagerly, angling his ass for better access.

Bucky slid down the wall, the lines of the room blurring into his prison cell at the other Siberian base. He could feel their hands on him, in his hair, the burning need that drowned out all rational sense. Lukin had said he’d made a tape, had threatened to show it to Steve – this was a nightmare, his worst nightmare. And yet, it got worse: Bucky’s body began to respond, his cock starting to fill and ache. Christ, he was so fucked up, but he couldn’t pull his head out of the past. Phantom hands roamed his body, tugged his hair, and want slithered through his loins.

Steve turned away from the screens quickly, his face a mask of anger. He had every right to be angry – seeing him for the cockslut he really was. He said he knew – but it was one thing to hear about it, and another entirely _seeing_ it… seeing how badly he wanted it. Did he notice the bulge in his pants even now? God, he hoped not. Steve would never look at him the same way again. How could he?

“ _Who are you thinking of, Sergeant? Your dear Captain, perhaps?”_ Lukin’s voice taunted. He couldn’t bear to look at Steve. Instead, he curled in on himself, burying his face in his arms and hiding his disgusting erection.

A loud crack shattered the screen, a second, a third, as Steve slammed his fist into monitor after monitor, but still the audio played through speakers in the room. Bucky’s sibilant moaning, a wet squelching, and Lukin’s laugh: _“You do hunger for your Captain. Did he know what you were? Did he debase himself with you?”_

Steve tore the speakers off of the wall in a cascade of sparks before kneeling down in front of him. “Bucky-” But this time Bucky didn’t answer, curling tighter. “Bucky this video queued up can’t be a coincidence.”

Static hissed over Steve’s radio again, “ _… up here… damn … out…”_ Steve stiffened, and from deeper in the compound, he barely registered a low groan and squeak of a heavy metal door opening.

Distantly, Bucky noticed Steve stiffen and shift his attention. But he couldn’t look up – he tried! He tried, but his body was lead – Steve was saying something, and then – he was gone.

Alone – he was all alone – Steve had left him behind – of course he had – he deserved this, to be left here after what he’d done. It was only a matter of time till Steve saw him for what he REALLY was. He deserved to be left here. This was where he belonged. Maybe he never even left at all; maybe getting away had just been a hopeful dream that had finally shattered.

The lights flickered around him before plunging him into total darkness. A steady hissing noise like the static from the video filled his ears, and the air tasted… _different_. Thicker. Like sickly-sweet fruit.

No.

He needed to get up. He needed to do something. Get away. Help Steve. Assuming Steve even wanted to see him again, but his legs wouldn’t move.

His hands scrambled, clawing for the mask at his belt, bringing it up to muzzle his face and filter whatever gas had flooded the floor. _Breathe… breathe… get up. Go after Steve. You can’t leave him to run off. Someone’s here, this was a trap._

Seven times, Bucky gave himself a count of three to get up, to pull himself out of it, to get moving. Seven times he stayed rooted to the spot, unable to even open his eyes.

Suddenly, pain lanced through his chest as if he’d been impaled.

He gasped, head jerking up. _Master_! – no – _Steve_! Steve was in trouble.

_Steve was hurt!_

He didn’t so much consciously stand as the room seemed to tilt and suddenly he was on his feet. His demon eyes adjusted to the pitch darkness, and he ran after the invisible tug that would lead him to Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely demon!Bucky piece by [ Enojelly](https://www.instagram.com/enojelly/?utm_source=ig_profile_share&igshid=69s18z2nfi8f) \- Kamiki commissioned her make this for me as a feel-better gift after the cancer diagnosis <3 - thank you both so much ;_; 
> 
>  


	22. Chapter 22

_Gotta Find Steve!_   
  
Bucky’s heavy bootfalls echoed down the hallway; panic subsumed any thoughts of stealth or tactics. The familiar pain of his master in danger – his master _hurt_ – burned through his chest like molten metal. Expertly, he navigated the twisting corridors of the compound with a supernatural combination of his soul-connection to his master, dark vision that let him make out the hazy outlines of the walls through the pitch blackness, and ghostly memories.

_He’s hurt – I have to get to him!_

Somewhere under the mental equivalent of a blaring siren, he knew this was a trap, but every conditioning-reinforced instinct screamed at him that he had to help and had to do it now.

_I have to help Steve! I have to – have to THINK!_

Without slowing his mad-dash, he snatched the radio from his belt. He could run after Steve _and_ try to warn Sam and Clint.   
  
“Winter Soldier to Hawkeye and Falcon: Cap’s been grabbed – hurt! Pursuing! Requesting Back-up! Over!”

Static echoed off of the concrete walls in response. But then, punctuating through the hiss, broken words, “… repeat…. Do not pursue….” _an unmistakable staccato of gunfire “_ Trap… elevator sabotaged… busy up here!”

_Shit shit shit!_

He should stop. He should try to make it back to the surface. He should try to get to a panel and open up a silo, but it took a feat of will to slow his pace enough to silence his footfalls. Steve was in trouble. Every moment he delayed it could get worse. Every moment he delayed could get Steve killed! He couldn’t lose him again!

The pull led him to a door to one of the silos that hung partially ajar. They hadn’t made it this deep into the compound yet. This section hadn’t been cleared. _Dammit!_

He dropped to a knee and peered inside. He could barely make out the familiar silhouette of Steve’s massive frame hanging motionless by his wrists against the far wall. His head hung to his chest, and only the still-present burn in his chest signaled that Steve was still alive. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room, but he could only glimpse a small segment of the circular room. Tentatively, he peered around the door. The blocky shapes of slumbering machinery and trellising catwalks covered the inside of the silo like spiderwebs. No other signs of life save for Steve, but plenty of places to hide.

He should wait for back-up. He should take this slow, find another way in, and get the drop on whoever set this up. Instead, Bucky wrenched the heavy door open and ran inside. If he were quick-

He wasn’t more than a half-dozen steps in, eyes fixed on Steve – _on the damn bait_ – when he slammed into an invisible barrier and his guise sputtered out like a snuffed candle. Chortling, distorted laughter filled the silo chamber from – speakers? – positioned around the room, reverberating off of the curved walls. Dread drenched him in sweat.

The hissing of released gas abated, and without warning, light filled the chamber, momentarily blinding Bucky. When he lowered his hand, blinking away the spots dancing in his vision, he saw the full depth of the shit they were in.

His darkvision had allowed him to see shapes in the otherwise impenetrable blackness, not color or two-dimensional definition; he’d been blind to the containment ward drawn just inside the doorway. He had been caught in a six-foot diameter circle, Steve at least another ten yards beyond his reach, affixed to the far wall of the silo with maglocked handcuffs and wearing an unsettlingly familiar vest. A colorful bruise was already fading from above his eye as he began to stir, coughing around a rough gag in his mouth. His shield lay halfway across the room, beneath three plate-glass windows set into riveted steel. Behind the center panel, he now spied a man lifting away a pair of red-tinted goggles, and Bucky froze.

A snarl of scarl tissue covered his face, but Bucky would still recognize him anywhere: the leader of STRIKE team Alpha and sadistic asshole, Brock Rumlow.

Bucky immediately squeezed off a shot, but the bullet ricocheted off of the glass, embedding in the concrete wall not three feet away from Steve.   
  
“Ah ah ah,” Rumlow taunted with a wag of his finger, his voice emanating in a tinny echo through speakers. “This chamber was designed to withstand launch blasts from rockets, moron. You’re only going to hurt yourself or your precious _Steve_ with that peashooter.”

Bucky responded with an inarticulate growl. Spines pressed against the leather of his jacket, and his mind raced frantically for some kind of out. He’d waltzed right into a goddamned trap. He’d been so stupid! He’d _known_ what he was doing and he still fucking did it. And now… _now_ …

“I always said you were a goddamned animal. What, did you think you could just run around like normal folk?” Rumlow sneered. “You might have your buddy fooled, but I. Know _. Better_.”

Bucky paced the perimeter of the circle. “Bet you wish you could guise to cover up that ugly mess that you call a face.” Maybe he could keep him talking. Figure out some kind of way he could get Steve’s cuffs off with what he had on him.

“I think I look pretty good, all things considered.” Rumlow smirked, threading fingers through his greasy hair. “Now, before you get any more bright ideas, you might recognize the vest your pal is wearing.”

Bucky swallowed, unable to stop himself from looking back at Steve, his stomach clenching.

“I think the lab geeks said the original was designed as body armor that doubled as a personal heating device, but it didn’t work right. It overheated, sometimes even exploded.” Rumlow gave a nasty chuckle. “Stark senior may have come up with a lethal dud, but Hydra fixed the design, and we used to use it to thaw you out after cryo. But did you know that if you really crank up the temperature, you can still cook someone alive?” Rumlow held up a small box with a few dials on it. “Try anything and I’ll give you a demonstration. Now, toss your weapons outside the circle. All of them. And remember, _Asset_ , I know all the little hidey spots in that uniform.”

“I’m not your goddamned asset anymore!” Bucky roared back at him, refusing to let panic choke back his words any longer.

“Last fucking warning.” Rumlow twisted the dial, and heating coils woven into Steve’s vest began to glow dimly.

Steve twitched, coughing twice, and the fading ache in Bucky’s chest sizzled anew. Blearily, he raised his head, bloodshot eyes squinting before widening suddenly. “BURRHH-EE!” He shouted through the gag, jerking hard – but futilely – against the manacles.

“That right there is just going to be a pleasant tingle compared to what this baby can do. So please, give me an excuse to really hurt him.” Rumlow looked at Steve, tapping the remote against the glass. “You went and made it personal, Rogers, when you dropped a goddamned building on me! I think you’d look good with your own set of burns! Real karmic!”

Rumlow’s voice went low and dangerous, “Weapons. Now.”

“Burrh-ee! Nnggoo!” Steve tried to protest.

Bucky’s tail lashed from side to side, but he tossed his rifle outside the circle and began to methodically disarm himself like coming in from a mission hot. He maintained eye contact with Rumlow the entire time, his glare covering the yawning chasm of fear tearing open in his stomach. Escaping Hydra had been too good to be true. The freedom he’d clawed back from the world was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. They were going to get him back. They were going to strap him into the chair and fry away every memory he’d fought to reclaim. And Steve… _God,_ what were they going to do with Steve?!

“I know you didn’t forget the Mark II on the inside of your thigh holster,” Rumlow snapped.

Bucky shot back a glare that could have curdled milk, withdrew the knife and, with a flick of his wrist, buried the blade two inches into the concrete beneath Rumlow’s window.

“Cute,” Rumlow sneered and exited the control room, striding into the room with the remote in one hand and an ominous black doctor’s bag in the other. He set the bag on one of the antiquated workstations, and one by one withdraws a series of objects that accelerated Bucky’s already racing heart: a handwritten piece of paper, a gleaming black knife with a sickle-shaped blade, and a set of glyphed manacles. “I don’t get it.” Rumlow said, lifting the knife and letting it catch the light along a fine series of runes etched into the blade. Even from across the room, the gleam set Bucky’s skin crawling. “With the strength you had, you could have been _leading_ Hydra. But they had to fucking fry your brain to get you in line.” He set down the knife, “What a waste.”

“Because I’m not a crazed neo-Nazi!” Bucky snapped, “What’s it say about you, willingly working for a group that breaks people it can’t bend?” Fuck, how long had he wanted to spit these words at Brock fucking Rumlow? … had he ever before? Had those memories been taken, yet to resurface? Would this moment, too, be stolen away from him? Would remembering that he had been free, with _Steve_ , only to be captured again be a worse torture than forgetting he’d gotten this close?

“No, you’re just a fucking animal, and don’t understand your damn place!” Rumlow shook his head. “I may not be as good with words as Pierce was, but you know what your precious freedom breeds? Disorder. War. Your way, that never ends.”

“Bullshit, Rumlow. Hydra _sowed_ disorder. That was their damn MO!” Bucky snapped back. Rumlow and Pierce might have been used to twisting his mind when he was addled and confused, but his thoughts were crystal-fucking-clear now.

“No! Like I said: you’re just a damn animal. You’re incapable of seeing the big picture!” Brock blustered, his scarred face turning red.

“And you’re a sadist who happened to find a group of assholes just as fucked up as you!” Bucky wasn’t sure why he was even bothering trying to argue with Rumlow: he’d have had more luck getting through the blast windows with his rifle.

Rumlow paused, taking a step back and rolled his neck, eliciting a series of pops. “Fine, you want honesty? I’ll give you fucking honesty.” His smile turned nasty. “I loved my job. I was fucking _good_ at it, and I didn’t have half the advantages that you two did. But you two losers had to be beaten or tricked into doing it. We were gonna save the world. Still are – but you two had to go and make it harder.”  
  
“I don’t want to see the kind of world Hydra wants,” Bucky growled.  
  
Rumlow strode forward, kicking the weapons that Bucky had removed further away from his circle. “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you, you little cunt. Talking was never the primary use of that mouth of yours anyway, was it?”

Steve lurched against his bindings again with an angry, muffled shout, and for a split second the magcuff separated from the wall, only to snap back into place.

Rumlow’s eyes strayed to Steve, his burn-scarred face still expressive as it curled into a lewd smile. “What’s wrong, Rogers? Don’t like the thought of your little pal here on his knees for half of Hydra? You probably could have ferreted out more of us by going through his little black book than whatever CIA investigations you all are trying.” Rumlow laughed darkly. “Oh, that’s right – memory issues, huh?”

Anger sizzled through Bucky, and he instinctively dropped to a crouch and bared his teeth behind his muzzle. He wanted to rip him apart bare-handed, but he was outside the circle. If he only had his damn weapons! But wait – as loathe as Bucky was to admit it – Rumlow had given him a fucking idea. He was close: close enough that he could be affected by his pheromones! If he could get his guard down, get him to come into the circle… God, it was nauseating to even consider it, but it was the only plan he could come up with. He took a steadying breath, and let his thoughts slip back to the feel of hands tugging his hair, roaming over his body, the scent of desire...

It was all too easy.

Arousal overpowered Bucky’s fury and terror like a hurricane. His crouch slackened, knees going loose and his tail lifted in a sinuous curve over his back. A flush warmed his cheeks and his skin prickled, sensitive and hungry for touch.

When Bucky’s eyes fluttered back opened, Rumlow had made his way over to where Steve was still struggling against the cuffs, mouth quirked into a mockery of a smile. “Oh don’t worry, Rogers – I haven’t forgotten about you.” His words dropped off suddenly as Rumlow looked down at – Bucky realized with a clench of his stomach that there was a bulge in Steve’s pants. _Fuck_.

Rumlow blinked, then laughed, “Don’t tell me you enjoyed my little picture show back there! Jealous of the way he begged for it? Or have you already sampled the goods?” Rumlow sidled up to Steve’s side, casting his eyes back over to Bucky. He leaned in with a stage whisper, “Bet you’ve already had your way with that peach of an ass. But no matter how nice he took it, you could never fill him up the same way four of us could. Two in each hole…”  
_  
_ A moan escaped Bucky’s lips before he realized it. _Fuck_.

Steve’s cheeks went _red_ – but behind the gag it was impossible to tell if it was a flush of arousal or anger – or a mix of both.

Rumlow stiffened, and then barked a jackal’s laugh. “Oh I see what you’re doing, you little slut!” Rumlow sneered, then tapped the side of his nose. “I don’t work like that no more. Fires burned out my sense of smell! But looks like you gave yourself a little problem there, even with that mask o’ yours.”

He turned back to Steve, “See, Rogers: cat’s out of the bag! He misses my dick so much he’s trying to speed things up!” Rumlow glanced back over at him. “Don’t worry, Soldier: I know you miss our parties. Or hey, maybe I could fuck you while you suck off your Captain! Be good and maybe I could make it happen!”

Bucky’s tail lashed behind him without his volition, and he felt moisture collecting in the seat of his boxers. Fuck – this was backfiring! He dug his claws into the concrete. Even with his filtration mask, pulling his thoughts out of an arousal cycle was like trying to put the breaks on a speeding tractor trailer.  
  
Rumlow’s eyes strafed hungrily over Bucky, as he leaned in closer to where Steve struggled. “I’m going to make you watch me bind your Bucky here to me. I’m gonna make you watch him _ENJOY_ sucking me off – he’s been so good at that in the past – and then,” Rumlow hissed, eyes glazing over “I’m going to make him _kill_ you.”

Bucky wailed, mortified. _No – no no no!_ This was his worst fucking nightmare. And worst of all, Bucky _knew_ Brock could make him do it! Even WITH Steve watching, he’d go down on Rumlow, and he’d even enjoy it. No matter how much it hurt Steve. He was broken – he was a monster – he was the cockslut that Rumlow had called him!

“You deserve all of that and _more_ for what you did to me, you righteous bastard!” Rumlow snapped, whipping the gag out of Steve’s mouth. “Let me hear you cry over your succubus boyfriend!”

“BUCKY! RUN!” Steve shouted the moment the gag was off of him.

Didn’t he know? “I can’t!” he whimpered, curling tighter in on himself. “I’m… I’m a _demon_ Steve – I’ve tried to tell you! This circle – it’s trapping me!”

“Our friends are going to come for us!” Steve shouted, aiming a furious glare at Rumlow. “Hawkeye and Falcon: they’re here. They’re going to stop you!”

Rumlow paused, turning his attention back to Steve. Steve was trying to distract him!

_Snap out of it! Snap out of it! You have to do something!_ Bucky panted behind his mask. But what could he do? His limbs started to shake. Panic began to subsume his now-unwanted arousal, but it left him just as useless. No - he was worse than useless: it was _his_ fault Steve was even here. He was going to get him killed – no, worse, Rumlow was going to make him kill Steve! Just like Lt. Prewitt. Just like Howard. He was cursed – he was going to single-handedly destroy every good thing in his life. He was making the world worse. He really was damned – of course he was – he was a _demon!_

In the background, Rumlow laughed, unfazed. “The bow-guy and your air force buddy? Oh, they’re _busy_ right now.”

“What did you do to them?!” Steve demanded.

“They had to go and make things harder on themselves by heading back up before I could‘a gassed them. But that’s OK. I’ve got something to keep them occupied till I can order your precious Bucky here to kill them, too.”

The room spun and bile crawled up the back of Bucky’s throat. He tore the mask off of his face – it was choking him! He had to… had to… do _something_. But what? He was trapped. He’d been through this: for a year he’d been through this. Every time he thought he saw a light at the end of the tunnel it just turned out to be an oncoming train. _Train_. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, fighting vertigo as memory overlaid reality: the blaring horn of the train echoed in his ears as the sharp crack of metal gave way to a weightless plunge through icy winds. The fall should have killed him. Maybe that would have been better, because he couldn’t live like that again! He couldn’t be responsible for hurting Clint and Sam and _Steve!!_ He couldn’t get at Rumlow, but he hadn’t been barred from hurting _himself_ yet. He’d regretted not taking the opportunity when he’d had it before Fairbanks had bound him. Bucky swallowed, looking down at his claws. _Was he even capable of killing himself?_ He placed the claws of his left hand on his right wrist. He’d lost a whole fucking arm and all it had done was knock him into a heat. His hand shook, hot and cold prickled his skin in nauseating waves.

“Speaking of, I’ve been gabbing long enough. Time to get the show on the road, huh?” Rumlow said with a clap of his hands that reverberated in the circular room like a gunshot, startling Bucky into looking back up at him.

Rumlow crossed the room back over to where he’d deposited his supplies, lifting up a piece of paper. “Pierce biting it seems to have left an opening in the position of your master,” Rumlow smiled cruelly, “I can’t say I’m not going to enjoy having the final say in bossing you around, Asset.”

Bucky barely registered what Rumlow was saying. That wasn’t the book – it was just a slip of paper. Where had he gotten it?

What did it even matter? Bucky might as well give up on his quest to find the book: to find answers, to find a _cure_. His nature was going to screw him over before he ever got the chance. He pressed his claws harder against his wrist. He had to act – now – before it was too late. He had to _try_.

But just as beads of blood began to form under the points of his nails, Rumlow began to read, and Bucky’s muscles locked in place.

_I’m too late! I shouldn’t have hesitated – I should have just gone for it!_  
  
The words twisted and coiled around themselves, a continual drone like gurgling water in a brook or the buzzing of a swarm of locusts. He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even move his eyes from where they stared, transfixed at his wrist: forced to stare at his own failure!

_I shouldn’t even be here. I should never have gone to Steve. I should have killed myself the moment I was free from Hydra._

Distantly, over the sound of his racing heart and the cacophony of the ritual, Bucky heard Rumlow’s approach. His shadow fell over him as he crossed the threshold of the circle. He couldn’t see the ritual knife, but he could _feel_ its presence. His skin crawled as it moved towards the scar on his shoulder. It already ached in the memory of the gash.

“Bucky! Bucky move!” Steve shouted, but he didn’t understand! He couldn’t do a fucking thing because he was a _demon_. Because the magic wound around him and held him fast – even with Rumlow standing _right there_ inside the circle, Bucky was helpless! And Steve was going to _watch_.

Searing pain bit into the old scar of his shoulder – agony flaring anew as the scar that had finally started to settle down after his freedom was sliced open once more. Bucky tried to scream, but he couldn’t even manage _that_. His lungs cried out for oxygen, and his body yearned to lash out in response to Rumlow’s agonizingly slow knifework along the five lines of the pentagram.

Then, the knife mercifully drew away, and he heard Rumlow’s chanting intensify with a hiss, and the scent of new blood hit his nose.

Bucky tensed himself for the acid-pain he knew came next, but when Rumlow’s hand slapped hard against his fresh wound, it was _Rumlow_ who screamed in pain, shattering the droning cacophony. Bucky gasped in a lungfull of air as he surfaced from the rushing noise, and he collapsed, boneless onto the floor.

Rumlow staggered backwards. “YOU BASTARD! WHAT DID YOU DO!?” He shouted. “I’m going to fucking make you PAY for this!” There was a clicking twist, and the pain in his arm was nothing compared to the fresh burn in his chest – and an agonizing cry from Steve.

Burning leather – _like the smell of burning skin_ – clogged his nose and Bucky began to choke, eyes tearing up.

“BUCKY!!!!” Steve yelled. “BUCKY HELP! YOU HAVE TO MOVE!”

_He couldn’t – he was still trapped – he was useless – useless to stop Rumlow – useless to even kill himself!_ _This was all his fault!_  
  
His tail wound between his legs, his wings drew in closer, shaking. He should have died in the fall. Everyone would have been better off if he had. Even now, he was still fucking things up for his friends. Rumlow was going to get away. Rumlow was going to kill them both, and then Clint, and Sam…

“Snap out of it, Sergeant Barnes. Get out of there! That’s an order!”

_He had orders! (STEVE had commanded him. Steve would never command him!) He had a command!_

Bucky’s head snapped up as if pulled by a puppet string. Terror and shame still boiled through his brain, but now he _saw:_ the metal coils in Steve’s vest blared with light, and even from across the room Bucky could feel the waves of heat. Steve’s face was pinched in agony that echoed in his own chest. The vest had already smoldered through the top of Steve’s uniform and was searing into his skin!

He _had_ to move. He didn’t have a _choice!_ _He had orders!_ Already, he was rising to his feet. But the circle…

That’s when he saw it: in Rumlow’s hasty retreat he’d scuffed a small segment of the chalk runes of the circle.

He _could_ move. He _had_ to move.

In a flash, Bucky was at Steve’s side.   
  
“Bucky – be careful-!“ Steve managed through gritted teeth.

He didn’t hesitate. His master was hurting and he knew what he had to do. He wrapped his hands around the vest. Distantly, he registered that it was hot, but his flesh didn’t burn. It didn’t even hurt. He gripped it firmly and yanked _hard_. With a rip of Kevlar, the torture device tore away and Bucky tossed it, still smoldering, into the center of the room.

Steve’s body went limp in the cuffs, the flesh of his torso bubbling with third-degree burns. Bucky went to grab at the manacles to free him, but Steve shook his head, “Rumlow,” he croaked, “I’ll be fine – he went… that way – get him!”

Bucky turned; the door that he’d entered hung ajar. He bottled the panic and shame threatening to simmer over once more– honing it into a fine-bladed rage. As if chased by the hounds of hell, Bucky dashed after him on all fours, bounding off of the walls as frequently as the floor. But the droplets of blood that he followed out the door, down the hall and around a corner stopped dead at a wall of stench. Bucky coughed, eyes watering as he stood and looked around, waving his hand in front of his face to try to dissipate the smell of rotten eggs. He checked every room that connected, and continued to weave his way through the basement, but there was no sign of Rumlow.

Just then, the walkie talkie at his belt crackled to life once more “Barnes! Rogers! Come in! Do you read?”  
  
The adrenaline that had flooded his system started to drain away as if someone had pulled the stopper in the bathtub. He was _so tired_. Bucky slid down the wall, numbly picking up the radio, “Barnes. We’re… uhm… we’re…” _Report, he had to report. He couldn’t lose it – not yet._ “Rogers is hurt,” – the ache in his chest persisted, but hadn’t gotten any worse – “but stable.” _His master was injured on his watch. His master had to order him into action because he was too useless to act on his own._ “Rumlow was here – but I lost him.” _I lost him – he escaped! This is my fault! I failed the mission!_

“We were pinned down – taking fire. Clint took a bullet in the leg, but I think the shooters are gone. The elevator’s still trashed, but do you think you can get one of the silos open?”

Slowly, Bucky pushed himself back to his feet. The control panel to the silo should be behind those blast windows. Rumlow had left the door open.

He could do this.

“Roger that.” Bucky turned back, following the dim ache in his chest back through the familiar halls to Master.

He had a mission, and he was fortunate that it was a simple task. If he accomplished it quickly, then perhaps he’d be permitted to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gravesecret did this amazing Autumn-themed Demon!Bucky stucky piece as an amazing surprise! So even though this was a rough chapter, have some lovely, optimistic artwork!
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>  Posted on Tumblr


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